


my girlfriend, who lives in canada

by botanyclub



Series: Let's Get to the Bottom of This [1]
Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: F/M, canon-compliant Yearning, cohabitation hijinks, eventual smut but only at the end, maybe the fake dating that turns into real dating trope is the friendships we made along the way, mentions of alcohol and drugs and general debauchery, modern au where gilbert is famous but they still grew up in avonlea together, rigorous exercise in the form of jumping to conclusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23101663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub
Summary: Gilbert causes an international incident when he casually lets drop during an interview that he has a girlfriend back home in Canada (which, while technically untrue, is rather negligible in the grand scheme of things. So far as the truth goes, Anne is a girl and she is his friend and Gilbert is scandalously in love with her). What could go wrong?[EPILOGUE POSTED]
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix/Sebastian ''Bash'' Lacroix
Series: Let's Get to the Bottom of This [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774954
Comments: 451
Kudos: 1133





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping this story finds you well. you may suspend your disbelief, as a treat.

He knows the words are a mistake as soon as he says them, watching the way his interviewer’s eyes grow round like saucers. Her mouth curls menacingly—all teeth, little lip—and it straightens his spine to attention. 

Out of the corner of Gilbert’s eye, he can see his manager spring into action, leaping onto set and motioning for the camera crew to stop the recording. Bash tussles with one of the production assistants who remains unphased throughout the fight, balancing a venti chai atop a tablet he is still casually reading emails from. Bash is heavily outmatched, clearly not the first manager in history or even in the past week to cause a scene.

_Save the trouble, Bash. It’s already too late._ Gilbert’s in front of a live studio audience half in shock, half at work transcribing his truth in perpetuity with as much decorum as 280 characters and size 12 Helvetica Neue allows. 

_“My girlfriend, who lives in Canada, still writes me letters.”_

“Letters?” Candance echoes, leaning forward even closer. There is a manic edge to the way her voice climbs higher by octaves.

Normally, Candace is his favorite stop in the aftermath of a film release. She doesn't have a single investigative bone in her body and so guest-spots, short and painless, remain surface-level at best: a few questions about the movie, one or two about his co-stars, and an anecdote from set to demonstrate comradery. _Wuthering Heights_ is also a highly anticipated comeback for Gemma, much maligned over the years but a once in a lifetime talent.

Unfortunately, her leading man eviscerates all of these talking points in the span it takes to scratch an itch. And for her all her geniality and formulaic interview style, Candance is still a reporter at heart. 

The studio lights trained on him feel somehow more intense. Gilbert resists the urge to squirm in his seat, the whole situation reminiscent of a cameo he did in a police procedural early in his career—a whole afternoon spent being interrogated by the “police” in connection to a cult murder (Gilbert being the skittish new recruit who’s accidentally witnessed too much, obviously). A less terrifying fate than having to discuss his relationship with Anne to the world at large. 

In all his years of celebrity, Gilbert has managed to remain something of an anomaly. Which in essence means the public finds him boring and the press chomping at the bit to rectify that. To them, Anne must seem to be a gift sent straight from the horse’s mouth: a secret girlfriend hidden away despite persistent rumors of his on and off-set affairs.

Every nerve ending in his body is ready to bolt; to leave without a trace. But a consummate professional until the end, Gilbert stays seated and schools his expression into something resembling warmth. 

“Yes,” he laughs, the sound sharp and brittle to his ears. “She’s very old-fashioned that way. And stubborn. She insists on putting that entire year of grade school we spent learning cursive to good use.”

He is smiling by the end of the sentence, affection leaking through like egg yolk past a broken shell. Lubricant for the tongue, loosening his lips.

Smelling blood in the water, Candace smirks. “So you went to school with her then? Grew up together in Canada?” 

Shit. 

“I meant it in a general sense. Every kid learns cursive at some point, right?” The words ring false, but Gilbert soldiers on. One last-ditch effort at damage control. “But maybe we did. Canada’s not so big, after all.”

He flashes Candace and the camera a Cheshire-cat grin. Better to give them a mystery than a half-baked excuse.

For the first time in his life, Gilbert is thankful that Anne is not on any social media. Sure, the only time he gets to see her face online is via carefully curated and tastefully cryptic Instagram posts from Diana or in the blurry background of Moody’s graduation photos. But at least she’s safe from the worst of what the Internet has to offer. Gilbert wouldn’t put it past his fans to work with what they’re given—his Following list of 74 people and two vague hints at Anne’s identity floating around in the ether—to arrive at a name soon enough. 

And while Anne is more than capable of protecting herself, Gilbert would rather she not have to in the first place. 

Determined, he doesn’t allow this line of questioning to go on for much longer, smoothly pivoting back to _Wuthering Heights_ with practiced velveteen. Still, he is surprised to see that Candace allows it, probably sensing a losing battle when she sees one. The rest of the interview is planted firmly on neutral ground and Gilbert retires to the dressing room afterwards without signing autographs, citing a migraine before slipping off without another word from anyone edgewise. 

Bash, predictably, follows him inside.

There’s nowhere to hide, really. The dressing room is sparse and generic: a set of couches on the far end, once opulent but browning with age, a wall to wall vanity mirror Cloroxed within an inch of its life, and a snack table Gilbert had torn through earlier given the seventy seconds of meal time Bash budgeted into his schedule. 

Another reason (excuse) for his lapse. Gilbert is _tired_. Bone-tired and haggard underneath a layer of makeup and rejuvenating facials.

Bash approaches slowly, like he would approach a wounded animal. Which isn’t far from the truth.

“Wonderful weather we’re having,” he starts, apropos of nothing. They live in southern California. Of course the weather’s nice.

“Bash,” Gilbert growls, steadily developing an _actual_ migraine. “Drop it.” 

His manager waggles his eyebrows like a ridiculous cartoon villain. “Drop it like you dropped that bomb on set just now?” is his brilliant reply. 

Gilbert stares resolutely at the floor, scouting for a nice patch of ground to bury his head in. Better yet, for a giant hole to open up and swallow him whole, preferably before this conversation can go on any longer.

Bash claims the couch opposite of him, long limbs dangling off the side of the armrest as he stretches in a show of nonchalance. The top three buttons of his dress shirt are undone and his hair is rumpled in places, track marks visible from where he’s run his fingers through the kinks repeatedly. Bash is nervous too, but he knows better than to show it. “So does Anne know she’s your girlfriend or do words not mean what I think they mean anymore?” 

Dashed is Gilbert’s last hope that Bash will let this slide. While the question is framed playfully, the implication is clear: this is a Very Serious Conversation. 

“Technically, I didn’t lie,” is Gilbert’s defense. “Anne is a girl and she is my friend.”

“But technically [ _Bash says this word in air quotes_ ] you never specified. So are you two dating or not?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“Gilbert.”

“And what is dating, really? We hang out, I’ve met her family, and we send each other letters. Do we have to put a label on it?”

Bash fixes him a stare. “You’re deflecting, Blythe, and you know it.”

If possible, Gilbert slumps even further into his seat. He feels a certain measure of shame but the dread of Anne’s reaction reduces it to a low, simmering heat. Despite her strict avoidance of social media, Anne will hear the news through the grapevine eventually. And eventually, he will have to explain himself and explain his feelings for her. 

Again.

“I don’t know why I said it,” he concedes, definitely pouting at this point. “It just slipped out. And Candace totally primed me for it with her comment about nobody sending letters anymore. It was low-hanging fruit!” 

“Well you said it and now you can’t take it back. Mary has been blowing up my phone for the last half hour, asking if it’s true.” Bash pulls something up on his screen and presents it to Gilbert’s face. “Apparently, you’re trending.” 

And sure enough, his name appears at the top of the list. Right above Lorde’s new album hashtag. _Lorde_. 

Frustrated, Gilbert pushes the incriminating evidence away and huffs. “So what do we do now?”

Too caught up in thinking about Anne’s reaction, Gilbert has failed to consider anyone else’s. Although he seriously doubts that, In the grand scheme of things, a dating scandal even constitutes a crisis. He barely even constitutes whatever (insert general hand motions) _this_ (emphasize with a sigh) is as a scandal. It’s not as if Gilbert was caught cheating on a high-profile actress or accidentally outed as certain rumours would suggest. His words are being blown out of proportion, as par the course.

And plus it is exhausting having to constantly think about the wider implications of his actions. How Gilbert’s every move is magnified tenfold and intrinsically linked to the happiness of fans worldwide, Bash and Mary’s career, the livelihood of the people he works with on set and the thousands of hands his films pass through in post-production.

Admitting to the world he exchanges letters with Anne is a pretty low-rent problem, all things considered. But even still, his next move will have to be calculated. 

“We can’t exactly sweep this under the rug. We’ve got to have a game plan.” 

Gilbert already hates the sound of that.

“First, we’ll have to loop in Mary.”

“Fine.”

“And we have to control the narrative. How we handle your dating news will affect how the press and social media handles any news from here on out.” 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to fake my death?” Gilbert half-jokes. “ It would drum up publicity for the film, divert attention away from-”

“Anne. We should get Anne on the phone.” 

Just as Gilbert suspects—he _definitely_ has to die. 

-

The letters themselves start innocuously enough.

It is a peace offering of sorts when he finds the first one she sends sandwiched between a Chinese takeout menu and a bank statement in his mailbox. He sees the flowery curl of an _A_ peeking out from beneath a picture of shrimp lo mein on his way to the trash bin and his heart pretty much stops in his chest. 

The letter makes no mention of his confession or her teary farewell. An olive branch dressed in news from Avonlea.

Gilbert was six months removed from leaving Prince Edward Island at that point. Six months removed from asking ( _begging_ ) Anne for a reason to stay, another layer of heartbreak in the wake of his father’s funeral.

It was unfair of him, he knows, asking Anne to make a decision he couldn’t make for himself.

But throughout it all (the funeral, the aftermath, his ultimatum) she is kind. Even when Gilbert isn’t making sense and doesn’t use his words and substitutes sentences with long, lingering gazes in the hopes that she’d understand what he is trying to convey ( _What’s holding you back? Just One Thing)_. She takes it all in stride, holds his hand, and sets him free.

He nearly falters at the airport when she and their friends see him off. In a fit of madness, Gilbert turns around at the security checkpoint attempting unsuccessfully to catch one last glimpse of red. The elderly woman behind him in line swings a carpet bag in his direction in an attempt to jostle him along and, even then, Gilbert spends too much time at the gate hoping against hope that Anne would pop up unannounced, bags packed and ready to follow where he goes. Comedic, considering their relationship has always been the opposite. In the end, he boards his plane alone and carries on to California.

When the letter finds him, Gilbert is in a much better place. He’s long since cycled through the different stages of grief; grief not only for his father, but the childhood he’s left behind. In this time, he also stumbles into an acting gig with a manager that takes him under his wing. It’s just a small role in a coffee commercial, but part of a larger marketing campaign that results in Tillie sending him a picture of his face on a billboard fifteen miles outside of Charlottetown. 

Tongue-in-cheek, Anne muses in her sign-off whether her letter would even be noticed in his no-doubt mountainous pile of fanmail. There is something in the slant of her writing that conveys the sound of Anne’s laughter, musical notes pressed invisibly between the lines of her signature. _Your number 1 fan, Anne Shirley Cuthbert._

Gilbert grins to himself as he pours over the two sheets of paper. He writes her back immediately, overflowing with words. _Already, I can see that your spelling and grammar have deteriorated in my absence. The Anne I know would never dream of writing numerals in a letter for a number less than ten. Just as I suspected, you are a wreck without me._

They continue exchanging letters from there. Once a week, every week, for the better part of a year. 

Before death once again rears its ugly head. 

The first time Gilbert almost falters and stays was at the airport, saying his goodbyes to Canada and Anne. The second and last time is at Matthew’s funeral, when she tucks herself into the crook of his neck and lets salty tears soak into the collar of his suit. A larger than life figure all throughout Gilbert’s childhood, the redheaded girl feels exceptionally small and fragile in his arms. Despite this, Anne grieves in a way that shakes foundations, thunder and lightning and a darkness that mirrored his own. So much like Gilbert in mourning that he wants to stay, to be by her side in a way she couldn’t when he lost his own father.

Couldn’t, wouldn’t, _shouldn’t._

Despite their rivalry in school, Gilbert has never contested the fact that Anne is smarter than him. Knew even then, at sixteen, that what Gilbert needed was to leave. To put down roots in a place that didn’t hold him back. 

But Anne is different. Avonlea, to her, is different. She’s already put down her roots, planted them in the first place that allowed her to grow and thrive and provided her with a stability she had never been afforded in foster care. 

An agrarian community that has operated on the same time table since colonial settlement, Avonlea is the picture of predictability. The sun rises in the morning, an autumn breeze signifies the start of harvest season, and winters bring the promise of snow. 

He senses, in her moments of weakness, that Anne would say yes if he asked. Yes to what? The question itself is half-formulated and unclear, but she would say yes regardless. In her grief, Anne is malleable. And Gilbert, in his, wants to take advantage of that.

But despite this, he knows what Anne needs is the stability of Avonlea. To know that life goes on even without Matthew around.

He could, would, and _should_ walk away, a distraction in her path to healing. And so he does. But this time, Gilbert goes alone to the airport; he understands with bone-deep certainty that he isn’t strong enough to get on that plane a second time if he knows that Anne is not far behind. 

He gives her space. Shreds dozens of letters half-written in a drunken stupor when the missing gets to be too much.

But eventually she sends him another letter, three months later, picking up exactly where they left off. There is no mention of Matthew, a fleeting anecdote about Marilla, and paragraphs waxing episodic about her summer carpentry project with Jerry ( _I’m gonna build the most romantical bookcase you ever did see!_ ). But all the same, he senses she’s healing. Picking up the pieces of her heart and molding them together again, pain leaking through in the undercurrents of her writing but fuel for the kiln that will eventually burn her anew.

-

Bash’s worry turns out to be for naught.

Mary, thankfully, serves as the voice of reason (and Gilbert’s savior) on the matter. “Nobody knows Anne’s identity and drawing further attention to it would only make everything worse. Plus, I’d rather leave Anne out of this for now—she’s not exactly trained on public relations and I don’t want her saying something that can be misconstrued or used against either of you.” 

Bash looks like he wants to argue, but PR is Mary’s expertise and so they defer to her judgement. She is, after all, the best in the business.

“Candace and her team have also agreed to cut out the last bit of the interview involving Anne. Fortunately, your guest spot ran over time and it’s the easiest chunk to edit out. But we can’t take back people’s tweets and it would be too suspicious to send out multiple cease and desists. So we’re just gonna have to put our trust in time and another celebrity scandal for this to blow over.” 

And it does eventually. Thanks in part to the revolving door of sexual assault allegations, cultural appropriation, and the occasional pregnancy announcement thrown in the mix, Gilbert’s love life is left pretty much alone. 

Anne is none the wiser given that their friend group is thankfully not active on stan twitter. Speculation persists about the identity of Gilbert’s secret girlfriend (the general consensus being Prissy with a small vocal minority backing Josie). But those rumours, for the most part, are relegated to the most obscure subsections of the internet that Mary keeps him apprised of but doesn’t elaborate on. Gilbert doubles down on his belief that Twitter is a cursed place.

Business as usual. 

Gilbert is lulled into a false sense of comfort, doing his due diligence for the rest of the press tour without too much of a hassle. The media blitz is just day in and day out of interviews, magazine shoots, and movie screenings—after a while, it all blurs together like raindrops on a window pane. Gilbert is operating on auto-pilot for most of it, barely registering where he is geographically until the last leg of the tour, which brings him back to Canada. 

He is perusing the VIP lounge at the Toronto airport when all hell breaks loose. Gilbert doesn’t suspect a thing; the exclusivity of VIP separates him from the buzz that works its way throughout the airport, a bit dramatic if not justifiable by his status as Canada’s prodigal son. Gilbert, meanwhile, is fully preoccupied with the lunch spread, working his way from entree to entree with enough food to feed an army. While there are many things about fame and fortune that make him uncomfortable, the privileges it brings and the uncomfortable truths he’s forced to face, Gilbert can’t bring himself to fully renounce displays of exorbitant luxury when there is a 5-pound rock lobster staring him right in the face.

Gilbert is just about to dig in, making it as far as tucking the napkin neatly over his lap, when his cell phone vibrates on the table next to his plate. The name that flashes across the screen is enough to freeze the blood in his veins. 

_Anne (With An E)_

“What the-?”

Anne never calls. 

They don’t even text.

It was one of their unspoken agreements when they took up their letter-writing campaign. Gilbert knows a slippery slope when he sees one; how easy it would be to go from texting to calling to video chatting at night. To hear Anne’s voice is to hop onto the next plane headed North—it was only a matter of time. 

And precisely why their call log has only a singular entry: May 22nd, 2018. The night Matthew died.

Gilbert remembers their conversation being short—seven minutes in total and the beginning three of which Anne spends sobbing into the phone. But in those three minutes, Gilbert has already booked his flight, fired off a series of texts to Bash and Mary, and located his overnight bag before Anne has even calmed down enough to utter a word. 

No hesitation. It is instinct to run to her. 

Even now, that very instinct calls to him. Before he even picks up, Gilbert has already slung his backpack over his shoulder and is making a break for the customer service desk. His hand trembles as he slides to accept the call.

“Gilbert?” Anne sounds breathless, her voice taking on a tinny quality that still manages to accelerate his heartbeat. “Gil, what’s wrong? It feels like a hundred people are outside my house right now asking about you.” 

“What?” is his eloquent reply. He doesn’t know how to respond and is only half-listening at best. Instead, Gilbert plays charades with the customer service rep to try and reroute his ticket. He doesn’t dare raise his voice above a whisper for fear of freaking Anne out even more. 

The woman helping is too starstruck to grasp his urgency, dazed and gaping until she eventually gets with the program. To her credit, she is the picture of efficiency afterwards, hurriedly sliding him a pen and paper scribbled _When and Where?_ as she pulls up his flight reservation. Under normal circumstances, this could definitely be construed as a come-on if Gilbert weren’t so acutely aware of his panicked physicality. To anyone looking in, nothing about this interaction read flirty. 

Anne’s voice filters back in as he is finalizing his flight change. “Did something happen? No one can make it past the front porch without getting swarmed and Ruby’s afraid to get out of her car so she’s been circling the block for the last half hour.” 

Gilbert slides the agent his credit card, not bothering to check the charge. He’s filmed enough airport scenes to know that his flight is boarding on the other side of the terminal. At least his agent promises to call over and hold the gate, even if she can’t guarantee anything for much longer than a few extra minutes.

“I’m not sure,” Gilbert says eventually. “There was something, a few weeks back, but it didn’t amount to much.” 

“What are you talking about?” she sounds confused. He can imagine her pacing, wearing a path into the plush, shag carpet. 

“I’ll explain when I get there, I promise. But my flight is boarding now.”

“You’re coming to me? To Charlottetown?” 

Gilbert ignores the flush of pleasure he feels hearing the anticipation in her voice. “Yes, Anne. I’m coming to you.” 

It’s instinct, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i posting this without a game plan or anything more than a handful of scenes that didn't make the cut? absolutely. i radiate chaotic energy.


	2. two

Gilbert hates the optics of being the celebrity who holds up everyone on the plane, collapsing into his seat fifteen minutes after the gate was supposed to close. The flight attendant nearest, an older woman who wears her glasses on a chain, hustles to offer him a drink, accidentally clipping another passenger in the shoulder in her haste to first class. Gilbert feels dirty looks boring into the back of his skull and the tips of his ears burn red from shame; he can’t shake the habit, despite years of built-up tolerance, of internalizing people’s disapproval as a reflection of his worth.

He often wonders if the trade-off is worth it. Because while Gilbert loves the people that celebrity has brought into his life, his family unit of Bash and Mary and the little one they are expecting sometime in the coming months; the perks of fame and fortune (swiping a card and grounding a flight exhibits A and B, respectively) - a part of him will always yearn for the comforts of Avonlea. For beautiful coastlines and the swell of summer transitioning into orchard blossoms bearing fruit come fall. He even misses the mundanity of tasks like grocery shopping alone, ordering two dozen timbits to split between him and Moody, and (of course) Anne.

_Anne._

His mind is buzzing again, thoughts ripping through like one of those plastic reel viewers he had as a kid. Nothing full-bodied, but more like fleeting impressions of worst-case scenarios. 

The flight attendant greets him with a drawl so slow it borders on being a parody. Gilbert waves off the question about refreshments and buckles in, biting his tongue to keep from snapping at her good-natured fussing and complete lack of urgency. Jamie (according to her nametag) looks hurt at his dismissal, but pivots to going over safety procedures with practiced articulation. She makes no attempt to shorten her speech and punctures the end of every instruction with an overworked joke. 

Gilbert impatiently checks the time on his phone, paying no mind to the numbing quality his right hand has taken on after twenty missed calls from Bash.

The seasoned manager had returned to a VIP lounge suspiciously void of its most important P and immediately connected the dots. 

He sends Gilbert no less than seventeen texts between calls, all ranging from STAY WHERE YOU ARE to BLYTHE, I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I DON’T CARE IF THIS ENDS UP BEING PERMISSIBLE IN COURT WHEN I AM ON TRIAL FOR YOUR MURDER, I WILL END YOU TONIGHT. (MEMBERS OF THE JURY, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE FORGIVE ME.) 

All of which Gilbert willfully ignores, of course. He has bigger things to worry about _—_ namely how Anne is holding up and why this total non-story grew wings overnight.

He is just about to power down his phone for takeoff when he gets a text from an unexpected number.

Jane Andrews: I’M SO SORRY MY BROTHER IS AN IDIOT

Jane Andrews: ANNE HASN’T SEEN IT YET I PROMISE 

Jane Andrews: [http://www.skylandmag.com/gibert-blythe-secret-girlfriend-identity-revealed-exclusive-tell-all-from-middle-school-best-friend/] 

Against his better judgement, Gilbert clicks the link. 

Immediately, he is greeted with pictures of him and Anne from their middle school graduation. Gilbert is wearing an ill-fitting suit and his dad’s dress shoes against a backdrop of bleachers. Anne is standing beside him, arms ramrod straight and clasped in front of her so as to avoid even the chance of physical contact. Her mane of hair has been pared down to an uneven pixie, the unfortunate result of dying her whole head green in a mishap she doesn’t speak of to this day. But despite the fluorescent lighting and the grainy quality of Diana’s flip phone, the photos still manage to capture Anne’s glow and Gilbert’s deferential body language, gaze and clown shoes angled toward her instead of straight ahead at the camera. He is mid-sentence and trying to capture her attention; entirely incidental, but the snapshot only serving to illustrate a young boy in love. 

Which Gilbert was, even if he didn’t know it at the time. 

He takes a moment to skim the article itself, an exclusive tell-all told by none other than Billy Andrews. 

The piece thoroughly outlines the progression of their relationship, beginning with Anne’s arrival in Avonlea after a mix-up with the adoption agency, the incident where she breaks a slate over his head when one of his jokes goes too far, and includes anecdotes too specific to be fake but so deeply buried in the recesses of his mind that Gilbert can’t seem to recall them no matter how hard he tries. 

Jane claims that Anne hasn’t read the article yet, which gives him some measure of comfort. But it is three hours between here and Charlottetown; by the time he lands, it will have been enough time for Anne to read through the tell-all tenfold (simultaneously nothing she doesn’t already know but also the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened in the course of Gilbert’s life). 

Of course, Anne knows about the torch he’s carried for her since middle school _—_ he practically told her as much three summers ago before he left. But still, she could have lived a long and meaningful life without knowing he secretly pocketed the rose petals she threw in their seventh grade recital (and that Gilbert still keeps now, pressed between the battered pages of his copy of _Jane Eyre_ ). The fact that Billy noticed, retained that information, and was able to recall it years later is nothing short of a miracle. But plausible, in retrospect, given that Gilbert only had eyes for Anne and was none too subtle about it in their early years. (According to Billy, the whole of Avonlea knew about his feelings for the redheaded girl.) 

With that fact looming heavy, Gilbert spends the rest of the plane ride in abject horror, incredibly aware of every minute passing him by.

The trip time is mercifully cut in half thanks to favorable weather conditions and the way Gilbert jumps from his seat the second the seat belt sign switches off. Deboarding is quick and he gives Jamie an apologetic smile on his way out as he pull his hat down further over his curls. He doesn’t want to risk being recognized and bombarded before he even makes it past the gate, but breaking out into a sprint when someone holds his gaze for longer than two tenths of a second would draw far too much attention. So Gilbert eventually settles for a pace that is faster than a walk but not quite a gallop, the impression of someone limping by at 15 MPH inconspicuous enough that he makes it out of the terminal but not without a handful of curious looks. 

He elects to skip baggage claim altogether and beelines it curbside, hopping into a taxi just as a family of four slides out with their bags. The interior reeks of weed and lemon-scented Lysol but the man behind the wheel is none too curious about Gilbert’s identity at least. He quickly rattles off an address and tells the cab driver, under no uncertain terms, that he is willing to front the bail money and then some if the man would just floor it ‘til Queens. 

Keyed up in the backseat all the while, Gilbert unconsciously reverts back to the habit of chewing his lip. A month’s worth of conditioning and PR training to wean Gilbert off this tic _—_ an unnecessary and too telling display of vulnerability _—_ is wasted in the span of thirty seconds. It is only when he feels the dribble of blood down his chin that Gilbert realizes he’s broken skin and absently wipes with the back of his hand. He is too distracted taking note of his billboard in the distance; an indication that they have finally breached the outskirts of city limits. 

The closer they get to Queens, the more Gilbert has to combat the dread he feels in tandem with his building anticipation. He wonders how Anne will receive him after all this time, showing up on her doorstep on the heels of an international incident. Is this the type of occasion that would warrant buying flowers? A custom cake topped with _Sorry I Fucked Up_ in buttercream frosting? Gilbert is suddenly unsure of himself, wondering if perhaps he should have listened to Bash after all. 

But he also figures showing up looking like something the cat dragged in would at least temper Anne’s reaction. At the macro level, he knows he looks much the same since the last time they met and any minute changes are tracked through social media or captured in his films and interview segments. But Gilbert also hasn’t slept in close to forty eight hours, is sporting a busted lip, and looks appropriately apologetic enough to at least soften the blow. He had hoped to appear dashing and handsome, but will settle for just being near her. 

Eventually, the cab driver pulls up to a seemingly quiet neighborhood with a line of cars wrapped halfway around the block. Everyone is double-parked and congregating around a two story house with blue-painted windows, posted up just shy of the legal distance away from trespassing on private property. Gilbert can see a curious pair of eyes peeking out from between the curtains, but can’t tell from his distance whether or not they belonged to Anne. The paps snap a couple pictures, likewise speculating on the identity of their owner, but remain otherwise silent; crouched and tense, like predators in waiting.

Gilbert instructs his driver to circle back and drop him off a couple streets away. With nothing else to provide cover, he ducks behind a cluster of recycling bins to formulate a plan.

At this vantage point, Gilbert can immediately tell there are no easy points of entry. The crowd isn’t neatly divided on either side of the footpath so he can’t just hightail it down the middle without anyone getting in his way. The house is also backed by a steep drop off leading to an open field, clear sight lines rendering him a sitting duck should he try to flank them. Realistically, there’s no way he can get to Anne without revealing himself and whipping the media up into a frenzy in turn.

Gilbert is about to cave and do just that when a hand, from out of nowhere, wraps firmly around his shoulder.

“JE–” he starts, but her other hand snakes itself just as quickly over his mouth. Ruby Gillis has always had big, blue eyes that often give her the impression of a deer caught in headlights. But in this instance, she appears incredibly self-assured.

“Hello Gilbert,” she greets in a whisper, much quieter than she actually has to be. Better safe than sorry. She removes the hand from his face.

“Ruby,” he returns, heart still hammering in his chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve been circling the block for the last four hours.” 

“Don’t be silly,” she laughs. “I was over at Moody’s place trying to see if I could wait them out.” 

“No such luck,” Gilbert jokes. “The paparazzi can be a persistent bunch.”

“And this is what you’re subjecting Anne to?” 

Gilbert flushes from head to toe. Growing up, Ruby would have never dared speak to him like that given her massive crush and naturally deferential personality. But they are no longer kids and Ruby has grown into a charming woman in her own right, a journalism major at Queens and an editor on The Daily Cardinal. 

Gilbert laughs, awkward and forced. He doesn’t know how to respond to a question he’s also been grappling with since he opened his big, dumb mouth on Candace’s show. But thankfully Ruby shrugs it off; another problem for another time. 

“I can sneak you in,” she offers eventually, eyes scanning the crowd like a general surveys the battlefield. He can see the cogs turning in Ruby’s head, blonde curls tucked behind a dainty set of ears. Her otherwise angelic appearance is bracketed by the mischief that shapes her lips into a grin. “There’s a trellis on the west end of the house _—_ a little more blocked off from view unless you’re looking at it directly. I can create a distraction up front if you wanna loop around back and climb in.”

“Is it safe?”

“Probably not. But just cut through the neighbor’s yard on the left; Moody does it all the time and hasn’t been caught yet.” 

Gilbert raises an eyebrow at that last part. “Moody does it all the time, eh?” 

“Oh shut up.” Ruby playfully shoves him aside, straightening up with a natural grace. She offers him a hand, which Gilbert accepts. 

“I’ve let the girls know to expect you. Shoot me a text when you're ready, alright?” 

“Thanks, Ruby.” He pauses, not sure what else to say. Something about this moment feels charged, like a fundamental switch has been flipped in his brain. Ruby feels different, but so does Gilbert. They are older, obviously. But somewhere down the line, their paths had diverged. And in this moment, he has two reconcile the two different versions of himself: Gilbert of Avonlea, and the one that stands before her now.

Ruby senses it, too. “It’s good seeing you again, Gilbert.” 

He nods, returning the sentiment. The moment passes, quietly, and fades.

“Alright, let’s do this.” 

-

He knows, almost immediately, that the plan is a mistake. 

But in a way, Gilbert is grateful for the opportunity to scale a lattice up the side of a house. Something about the promise of shattering his bones should he take one false step really takes the edge off of reuniting with Anne. It’s also great practice for the day his career inevitably takes a nosedive and he accepts a role in an action franchise that requires him to perform his own stunts for the artistry of it all.

Off in the distance, he can hear the sound of Ruby’s voice relaying a tale that manages to capture the paparazzi’s interest. Her voice doesn’t carry far so Gilbert’s not exactly sure what she’s saying or if it will end up hurting his case in the long-run. But at least everyone’s attention is diverted for long enough to allow Gilbert to reach the second-story window.

He is desperately clinging on for life, heart nearly stopping when he has to let go of one hand to knock dangerously against the window pane. His heart _actually_ stops when the shutter door swings open in response and nearly thumps him in the head. 

Josie’s head pops out and she peers down to see him. “Well come on then,” she says imperiously, blonde ringlets so long it brushes against his forehead. 

“Nice to see you too” he mutters, slinging his backpack through the window in one long, forceful arc. Uncharitably, he hopes it hits her, but it predictably doesn't. Arms shaking, Gilbert somehow manages to lift his body through the frame before collapsing unceremoniously onto the ground. He doesn’t even want to think about how he’s going to get back down. 

A pair of hands help him up. Gilbert regains enough presence of mind to recognize Tillie, smiling at him with a warmth that hasn’t dimmed since high school. She is standing next to Josie, tall and statuesque as ever. 

“Well come on then,” Tillie echoes her roommate (though it is much less grating coming from her.) “Anne is waiting for you in her room.”

Numbly, he follows along as Josie leads the way through the house, walking him past a line of doors with names written on hanging chalkboard slates. Gilbert doesn’t have to read the tight, cursive scrawl of her name to know that the room at the end, whose door is decorated in an assortment of crushed flower stalks and sea glass mosaics, belongs to Anne. 

He has a brief moment of panic when Josie raps her knuckles on a patch of unoccupied space. He can hear the soft rustling of movement before Anne appears between a crack in the door, eyes skipping briefly over Josie and Tillie before landing on Gilbert.

“Hello, Anne.” He resists the urge to fix his hair. 

She is the same as always, bright-eyed and freckled. She pushes the door open further to reveal the rest of her room, a chaotic arrangement of clothes and half-finished art projects dwarfed beneath a canopy of impressive plant life. She is dressed in denim overalls, smudged with paint, and mismatched socks. Ethereal. 

“Gilbert,” she says in a way that is not quite a sigh but not unlike one either. Her arms twitch violently at her sides before she determinedly straightens them out. Maybe Anne also briefly thought about embracing him before becoming incredibly self-conscious about the fact that they had never quite breached the barrier of touch. Discounting Matthew’s funeral and a singular dance at a middle school function, the extent of their skin to skin contact is limited to platonic high-fives and the occasional pinky promise. But Gilbert can’t exactly say he’s never imagined what it would be like to drag the pads of his fingers across the expanse of Anne’s skin, rubbing in her freckles like they were individual copper pennies. 

Gilbert flushes, filing that train of thought away for later. _Focus, Blythe_. 

“So are you going to explain to us why there’s a hoard of reporters outside our front door or should we attempt to read your mind?” Josie posits when it is clear neither Gilbert or Anne will make the first move. It is classic Josie to undercut any tension in a room, never one to wallow in the heaviness of a moment. She is blunt, but she moves the plot along.

“I’m assuming you all read the article,” he huffs, purposefully not making eye contact with Anne. “I made an offhand comment on an interview a couple weeks ago. It didn’t run on air, but there was a live studio audience and about a half dozen staff members around. Billy probably found a transcript in whatever corner of the internet he lurks in and began shopping his tell-all around until Skyland picked it up. That’s my best guess, anyway. And you know how the press gets; you give them an inch and they swarm your house and never let you know a moment’s peace _—_ that sort of thing.”

“Can’t say that I do,” answers Josie.

“Billy Andrews is the worst,” is Tillie’s takeaway from all this.

And Anne, quietly, asks: “What was the offhand comment about?” 

Gilbert wants to die _—_ has never wanted to more in his life than in this moment. But Anne is looking at him expectantly, blue eyes framed by strawberry blonde lashes, and he knows he can't leave without first cleaning up his mess. So haltingly, Gilbert responds, “Something about how my girlfriend still writes me letters.” 

Josie has to elbow Tillie in the ribs to knock the grin off her face. Anne, in response, turns a shade of red almost equivalent to her hair. “Oh, I see.”

To diffuse the situation, Tillie eventually asks “So what are we to do about the crowd of reporters outside?”

“They’ll leave eventually, won’t they?” Anne sounds so hopeful, Gilbert almost doesn’t want to burst her bubble. 

Josie does it for him instead. “Unless Ryan Gosling does something drastic in the next thirty minutes,” she snorts, “they could probably camp out there for days.” 

He’s loath to admit it, but Josie’s right. “For the sake of everyone else’s sanity, Anne, you should probably relocate.”

“Relocate? Where could I possibly go?” 

Josie’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Book a hotel or something. I’m sure Gilbert can pay for it, considering he got you into this mess.” 

“A hotel?” Tillie echoes, already scandalized on Anne’s behalf. 

Josie rolls her eyes. “Two rooms, obviously. Unless you really want to put the pedal to the metal on this boyfriend-girlfriend relationship.” She directs the last part at Gilbert, who refuses to react.

“I don’t know,” Anne starts, nervously picking at a hole in her coveralls. Gilbert valiantly fights off the feeling of disappointment, even though it wasn’t his idea in the first place.

“Would you rather be evicted by our house mother for disturbing the peace instead? God Anne, it’s almost like you crave the attention.” 

He opens his mouth to intervene, but Anne’s temper flares hot and ready. “Josie Pye, you are too grown to be acting so high school. Now get out of my room so I can start packing in peace.”

Affronted, Josie storms out. Tillie, ever the peacekeeper, mouths a quiet apology and follows her roommate out the door. Gilbert is about to do the same when a small hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. 

“You can stay, Gil.” 

He feels like he’s floating.

Not trusting himself to speak, he nods once in a motion so quick he almost gives himself whiplash. When she eventually drops her hand and moves to locate her overnight bag, Gilbert releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

To give him something to do rather than openly moon over Anne, he pulls out his cellphone and begins booking rooms. He barely pays attention to his screen on account of the fact that he’s trying to _secretly_ moon over Anne, surreptitiously taking peeks at her when her back is turned. But eventually, Gilbert settles on a deluxe suite at the Hilton, two rooms and bathrooms adjoined by a common space. 

He takes the opportunity as she scurries back and forth to admire the woman Anne has grown into. Not much taller, but no longer as lanky; there is a softness to her now that wasn’t present in their knobbly-kneed youth. But the most notable change is her hair, which in certain lighting could almost be mistaken for auburn. Anne also no longer wears it in braids, but instead settles for an elaborate up do that dangerously exposes the cluster of freckles in the junction between her left collarbone and neck. 

He almost jumps when she turns around to grab a book off her nightstand. 

Gilbert’s not exactly a virgin and this is far from his first time being alone with a girl. But this will be his first time being alone with The Girl in over three years and so he feels nervous anew, wracking his brains trying to come up with something clever to say. Something charming, so as to distract her from the fact that she’s being kicked out of her home and how it’s _definitely_ Gilbert’s fault. But Anne seems content to pack in silence and so he continues to bide his time. 

“Okay,” she says eventually, plopping her bag with a heavy thud onto the carpeted floor in front of her. She tucks her hair behind her ears and the motion strangely makes his mouth dry. “I’m all set.” 

“Ready?” he asks, the question heavier than he intended. Gilbert knows, now, that this is the question he wanted to ask in the aftermath of Matthew’s funeral. The one he has been crafting in his brain in the months since then, molding and remolding into its final form.

Anne nods once, solemn. But she smiles at him softly when she replies, “Ready.” 

They head downstairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy quarantine szn to my ladies and laddies and nonbinary baddies. Your collective response to the first chapter was actually bonkers and definitely motivated me to post this in a (somewhat) timely manner. Absolutely still writing by the seat of my pants, but maybe we'll get a semblance of plot in the next update?


	3. three

They resolve to be seen leaving through the front so the paparazzi know not to linger any longer. Gilbert’s eager to get a move on and to feel some measure of control over his surroundings, but Anne doesn’t seem too keen on confronting the crowd of reporters quite yet. She lingers in the hallway, dragging her feet toward the door before suddenly remarking that he should say goodbye to everybody first. 

“It’s only polite,” she explains and scurries past him with purpose. Gilbert follows behind, as is the usual way of things. 

The rest of the Avonlea girls have congregated in a back room, draped across chaise chairs like it’s a casual Sunday afternoon. The way they go silent when Anne appears hints at some secret conversation, averted gazes only confirming his suspicion. Anne doesn’t comment but Gilbert sees the way her jaw clenches as she skirts past the obvious, reminiscent of her early years in Avonlea when she couldn’t escape the whispers but didn’t want to cause a scene or (worse) affirm everyone’s worst notions about her character. 

Anne grips and then relaxes her hand, fingernail indentations like crescent moons on her palms. Gilbert has the urge to grab her hand and squeeze it in reassurance, but hesitates, not knowing if it is the appropriate thing to do. Anne ends up crossing her arms in a defensive stance instead, oblivious to Gilbert’s internal dilemma, an makes the decision for him.

Jane clears her throat and stands to meet them. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” she begins in lieu of a greeting, “Prissy definitely dressed Billy down in front of the entire office today.” The siblings work for their father in the corporate office, Prissy on a fast-track to becoming CFO while Billy unsuccessfully attempts to work his way up from junior manager (a position he snagged through nepotism alone). 

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better, but I also don’t feel any worse,” Anne admits. She is leaning against the door frame, searching for space to claim.

They are in a secluded corner of the house with the shades drawn closed. There’s a handful of chairs all occupied by a body, pulled closer together in a conspiratorial formation. The whole residence has the vibe of having been transported from the past, perpetually stuck in the Victorian era with the furnishings to match. There is burgundy carpeting and parlor palms by the windows, heavy curtains tied back using slips of gold, tasseled rope. Gilbert even spots a grandfather clock in the back corner serving as a bookshelf, ancient tomes with titles on delicate spines so worn down he can barely make out the letters. 

_Wuthering Heights could have easily been filmed here_ , he thinks to himself. 

Shockingly, Josie moves to make room for Anne on her chair in silent apology. There is a tense moment before Anne accepts and sits down, indicating forgiveness. Neither acknowledge each other or even make eye contact beyond that first cursory glance, but a temporary truce has been called between them it seems.

He still lingers by the door when Tillie waves him over, kindly offering him the armrest on her own ancient La-Z-Boy. But Gilbert shakes his head no, preferring to observe from a safer distance, because even at the grown age of 22, he is uncomfortable with being witness to their inner circle. 

“Gilbert, those reporters will accept scraps about your relationship,” Ruby comments, already on the edge of her seat. She looks about bursting with excitement.

“What do you mean? Did you tell them something incriminating?” He says it jokingly, but feels an odd sense of doom coming on. Somehow, Gilbert just knows that she did not end up feeding them some cock and bull story; those reporters were far too enraptured, for long enough that he was able to inexpertly scale up to a second-story window, for Ruby to have spun some far-fetched lie.

“No,” she says, but he already doesn’t believe her. “Just an anecdote about that time last year after your movie came out _—T_ _he Middle_? There were all those rumours flying around about you and Winnie Rose and . . . Well, Anne was absolutely devastated. It was like living with a mouse _—_ she nibbled at meals and you wouldn’t see her for days at a time. It probably didn’t help seeing you and Winnie’s faces plastered everywhere online and even across magazine covers in the check-out line at Sobey’s.” 

“You’re being dramatic,” Anne protests, but has gone scarlet from head to toe. She is resolutely avoiding eye contact and suddenly fascinated with the ceiling fixture above them. 

Gilbert doesn’t know how to process his emotions, seeing as how there are so many of them occupying his body at the exact same time. Delight at the forefront, tickled by the knowledge of Anne’s jealousy; Embarrassment because Ruby had given away information so closely-guarded to the undeserving public; and Shame, because even though he and Winnie weren’t _technically_ dating, it still felt too close to cheating on Anne. Even if the two of them aren’t _technically_ dating, either.

At least Gilbert can put a label on his relationship with Winnie: friends with benefits, a vessel for all of Gilbert’s unresolved feelings for Anne, a byproduct of forced proximity, on-screen chemistry, and a shit ton of hormones, etc. Theirs was a summer fling during some downtime between filming their second and third movie together _—_ a dystopian YA series with a splash of enemies to lovers. Gilbert’s the dashing face of the Establishment while Winnie plays an unassuming beauty who gets roped into the resistance. 

Nothing was ever confirmed and Gilbert definitely didn’t mention it to Anne, but he and Winnie did fool around and it picked up some traction with the media. That was around the time they hired Mary to handle PR because Gilbert had flown under the radar until then. Everything was eventually brushed under the rug as platonic interactions between friends, which they have since become. 

Their break-up came as no surprise. Of course, there is a mutual regard between him and Winnie as colleagues and he can’t fault her personality, which is winsome and kind. From an outsider’s perspective, Gilbert and Winnie are perfectly matched: young, rising stars, and both Canadian to boot. But it always felt like something was lacking when they were together, tangible even in its absence. Even now, he wishes their relationship felt as fulfilling as receiving a singular letter from Anne. 

“We weren’t dating,” Gilbert feels compelled to explain himself. “Just friends.” 

_Friends who slept together._ But he obviously doesn’t say that last part out loud. 

Winnie is by no means his first attempt at moving on. In the beginning, Gilbert runs with a different crowd, reluctantly joins dating apps, and sits VIP at various clubs throughout LA. He even lets random women take him home sometimes (and Gilbert makes no pretension in this case _—_ it is definitely _them_ having their way with _him_ ). Regardless, he’s doing what everyone says to do when getting over a break-up by _putting himself out there_. But it doesn’t mean anything in the end when he leaves the function before ten or sneaks out after sex because he’s thought of something clever to write in his letter to Anne.

Interestingly enough, his shitty reputation doesn’t follow him around. There is some tacit understanding that this is what happens in the early days of fame, an adjustment period Gilbert has to go through before achieving stasis. He’s been assured that none of his partners were ever under the impression that Gilbert was emotionally available. Or maybe he’s just forgiven more easily because he isn’t an unabashed fuckboy; rather, a more palatable variant whose perceived sensitivity masks the fact that he’s being a fuckboy all the same. 

In the end, it always comes back to Anne. 

For a while, he just chalked it up to a childhood fixation. As the old adage goes, you don’t forget your first love.

Gilbert’s problem is that he can’t get over her either. 

Gilbert doesn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on why their relationship never panned out. He supposes he could ask Anne for closure _—_ a reason why she said no all those years before. But he would rather exist in whatever limbo they’ve created than hearing a definitive answer from her lips. Gilbert’s not sure he could survive the heartbreak sure to come. 

And besides, Anne shows no signs of reciprocating his feelings. Whatever off-kilter reaction she’s expressed so far can be ascribed to embarrassment and the cumulative time they spent apart diluting the ease they used to find in each other’s company. Already, she seems skittish around him, hovering approximately in his orbit but never close enough to touch. 

“So what’s the game plan?” Josie asks, directing the question at Gilbert. Anne perks up beside her, casting curious blue-grey eyes over at him as well. 

He tries to project confidence, but fails. “Honestly? I don’t know. We’ll have to consult with Bash and Mary.”

“Bash and Mary?”

“My managers. They’re way more equipped to handle this. My instinct is to leave things alone until they pass.” 

“And you’re sure this won’t just blow over in a couple days?” Jane interjects. 

Ruby gasps, indignant. “I don’t know about y’all, but I can’t keep living like this anymore and it’s only been a couple hours.” 

“Hear, hear!” Tillie co-signs that sentiment. “Plus there’s no guarantee they won’t come back during a slow news day in the future.” 

Everyone grimaces at the thought, casting anxious stares in the direction of the door. As if on cue, a reporter outside starts clamoring for attention, yelling “ _Pretty please come out? We just want to talk.”_

Gilbert bites his lip, feeling sheepish in front of his childhood friends. “I’m really sorry guys. I know you didn’t sign up for any of this. You most of all, Anne.” 

Her flush comes back in full force. “It’s fine, Gil. I’m sure we’ll find a way around this.” 

She smiles, and it radiates kindness; forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve. Gilbert has to constantly grapple with the fact that Anne is too good for him, always. 

Meanwhile, Josie is suddenly bored with the conversation, a retreading of ground they’ve already covered. “Well you should get a move on, then. Mary Jane comes back from babysitting in 10 and if you all give her one more thing to complain about over dinner, I really might just pitch her out the window tonight.”

-

Gilbert says his goodbyes while Anne runs up to make sure she hasn’t forgotten anything in her haste. Josie strong-arms him into promoting her social media handles in exchange for keeping his secrets, a posh hand on her hip when she demands it with manipulative sweetness. It might be a joke, but you can never be too sure with Josie’s sadistic sense of humor. 

“Might mess around and become an influencer then,” she grins, snapping a selfie with him for posterity and clout. Gilbert good-naturedly goes along with it knowing Josie has faithfully kept his secret for years now, one of the first in their circle to cotton-on to his feelings for Anne. 

She is swiping through the photos, eyes glued to her phone screen, when she says, “Don’t fuck this up, alright?” so quietly he almost misses the beginning of the sentence. 

“What?” 

“With Anne,” she clarifies, moving on to Facetuning her favorite one. “Don’t do that thing where you both assume you know what the other is thinking and fuck things up again.” 

“What do you mean?” 

At that, she finally looks up, if only so that she can look him in the eyes when she rolls her own. “I can’t reveal everything at once, Gilbert. I am a very mysterious woman.”

He snorts, suddenly fond of the perennially prickly blonde. Josie will always come first when it comes Josie, but Gilbert gets the feeling that she’s still secretly on his side. 

Anne comes bounding down the stairs, stops just short of the two of them huddled by the umbrella stand. She gives them a curious look, but stoops to pick up her bag. “I’m ready, I think.” 

“Brace yourself then.”

Ruby is on standby at the doors while Jane and Tillie prepare to run point, quietly discussing best practices for barreling ahead to forge a path. The whole thing feels a tad bit dramatic, but the Avonlea girls can’t bear to be anything but. Being together like this feels like a little slice of their youth, even if the circumstances that brought them here were anything but ideal. 

Gilbert savors what he can of it before Ruby throws open the doors and reality hits. 

Like linebackers, Jane and Tillie charge ahead. Gilbert and Anne follow closely behind, heads down and trying to take up as little space as possible on the driveway. The reporters roll upon them in waves, a sea of microphones and cameras being shoved in his face. Gilbert is afraid to make eye contact, as if the act would somehow grant them powers. 

He feels the small of Anne’s hand grabbing hold his own, fingers stiff with terror. This time, Gilbert doesn’t hesitate, presses palm to palm and sends a wave of reassurance through something akin to osmosis. 

Up ahead, he sees Tillie knock a man out of the way while Jane sends another one stumbling into the crowd. 

They get into a taxi with a driver who is stunned at the scene before him, eyes wide and darting from person to person trying to assess the situation. Gilbert gives him an address and the man, quick on the uptake, peels away hard from the curb. From the rear view mirror, they watch as Jane and Tillie wave goodbye as the faster reporters begin revving their engines. 

“Are you okay?” Gilbert asks once he has a moment to catch his breath. He looks over at Anne, who is suspiciously quiet in the seat beside him. 

She appears shaken up, eyes cast downward at her lace-up boots. “You know,” she says eventually, “when I was little and imagined myself as someone rich and famous, I never really put much thought into the concept of paparazzi. I mean, they go hand in hand with the glitz and glamour, but I guess I always thought of them as cardboard cutouts holding cameras, you know? Just there to capture my angles. But to them, it’s almost like _I’m_ the cardboard cutout.”

“An object in their cross-hairs.” Gilbert takes off his hat and shakes out his curls, trying his best to disrupt the helmet hair on his head. 

“Yeah, you don’t ever really get used to it,” he admits. “Being dehumanized like that.” 

“How do you do it?” she asks.

“It comes with the job, living under a magnifying glass. But I guess I can’t complain.”

“Why not?”

“My life is not that hard. I own a nice, big house and my income doesn’t depend on getting a scoop or taking the money shot. I should be grateful.”

Anne fixes him a hard look. “You are allowed to experience emotions, Gilbert. You are allowed to feel frustrated and angry and tired and whatever else you’re actively suppressing.” 

“It’s so trivial, though, in the grand scheme of things. I have it easy.” 

“But that doesn’t minimize your struggles. A man who drowns in 100 feet of water is just as dead as someone who drowned in 6.”

“Nice,” he jokes. “Which Forever 21 shirt did you steal that from?” 

Anne rolls her eyes, exasperated. “All that to say, this isn’t a competition. You’ll go crazy thinking like that. People can hold the space to know that you’re better off than most while also acknowledging that your problems are valid.”

“Just because people _can_ hold space, doesn’t mean that they _will_ ,” Gilbert points out. 

They’re at a standstill now, neither willing to concede their argument. Anne has fully turned to face him in the backseat, any lingering anxiety she has quickly dispelled in the face of a challenge. He sees the spark in her eye, the one she always gets when she’s winding up, and congratulates himself on a job well done. She is distracted, even if only temporarily. 

They go back and forth for a while, progressing through multiple tangential topics until Anne is red in the face. These are the only instances in their relationship where Gilbert has the upper hand, casually planning out which buttons he’ll press next. Six years of schooling together and he knows exactly how to get a rise out of her. Like if he presents her with a straw man argument, Anne will inevitably huff in a manner not dissimilar to a cartoon character muttering “Why I outghta” before launching into a tirade about intellectual dishonesty. If Gilbert purses his lips, she’ll go immediately on the defensive. 

There is an ebb and flow that they fall into, just like old times standing on opposite sides of the debate team. Whatever tension he felt between them or nerves about the future fades away, secondary to how much he loves being with her again. Every pore in Gilbert’s body radiates contentment, an absolute _rightness_ , that he wonders how he managed to go so long without this. 

But the moment is fleeting.

As they pull up to the hotel, there are reporters already there to greet them. Like germs, they’ve multiplied. The siren call of the couple set too much to resist, they’ve called in reinforcements.

Gilbert wants to be charitable; he recognizes that for them, this is their livelihood. Nobody _chooses_ this life. But it is hard seeing Anne shrink in on herself after he’s just drawn her out, like she’s bracing herself for impact. Without thinking about it, he pulls his hat down over Anne’s head. She looks up at him from beneath the brim, small smile playing at the corner of her lips.

He calls ahead to the main desk, trying to make the check-in process as quick and painless as possible. They pull up his reservation and tell him to have his credit card and ID ready at the front desk. 

Wordlessly, he looks at Anne for some sort of affirmation. Silently, she grabs his hand in reply. 

From car to suite, it takes approximately seven minutes. Without Jane and Tillie to lead the way, it is absolute chaos trying to push past the crowd. The two teenage doormen try their best, but are ineffectual against the sheer force of determination emanating from the group’s collective efforts. Eventually, and only after Gilbert abandons his sense of civility and begins shouldering his way past their defenses, do they finally make it inside. 

It is clear from just trying to enter the building that The Hilton in Charlottetown is not exactly equipped to lodge an A-List VIP. While they can’t provide him with a penthouse and private elevator access, the hotel manager assured Gilbert that his room is the only one rented out on the floor and that guest access through public points of entry have been temporarily shut off. Gilbert thanks the man and leads Anne through the lobby, surrounded by hotel security moonlighting as bodyguards for that 30 yard stretch from desk to elevator. 

It is only inside their suite when Anne gently pries her hand out of Gilbert’s grasp does he realize he never actually let it go. Even through the length of the elevator ride and before, while talking to the concierge and one-handedly digging through his backpack looking for his things, he continues to hold it.

Gilbert desperately wishes he knew how to “play it cool” with Anne. Act like he doesn’t care and isn’t overanalyzing every single one of her microexpressions in an attempt to read her mind. He plays a lot of cool and collected types in movies, but can’t seem to translate that to real life. In real life, he is clunky and obvious and the longer they are together, the more and more he feels like a bumbling idiot in her presence. 

Anne moves to claim a room and takes the one closest to the balcony. She throws her bag on the bed and her first order of business is to inspect the view, pushing past the french doors with gusto. While she is a creature of nature, of open skies and cicada husks and fields of golden wheat, she can still appreciate the clean lines of a cityscape, imagining the people down below as ants and every skyscraper just a particularly tall blade of grass. She sighs against the wind and visualizes her breath being swept away to foreign lands. 

Gilbert watches, enraptured. They say that unrequited love has an element of fantasy, of putting the other person on a pedestal. But Anne has always been a larger than life figure throughout his childhood, grown even larger as she peels back layers in her letters, revealing the core of who she is. So while Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is brash and occasionally ridiculous and has an inflated sense of righteousness, there is no doubt in his mind that she also hung the moon. 

As if on cue, his phone rings like a gunshot, Mary’s Caller ID displayed ominously across the screen.

Gilbert is used to ignoring Bash. Gets a kick out of it, really. But he never messes with Mary. 

“Hello?” he answers the phone. Something in the sound of his voice has Anne retreating from the balcony and coming straight to his side. Gilbert shakes his head and points to the TV screen, indicating that this will mostly likely have to be a conference call. 

He scurries to set up the connection, plugging in passwords and turning on bluetooth. He feels equal part elated and nervous to see Bash and Mary on the monitor, Mary seated primly while Bash paces back and forth in the background. 

“What the ‘ell were you thinking?” Bash explodes, his Trinidadian accent growing thicker with rage. His volume is subdued though and he didn’t go straight to swearing, so Gilbert knows this is more anger out of concern than anything else. In summary, salvageable.

“They were swarming her house, Bash. I had to go help!”

“It’s my fault,” Anne butts in. “I shouldn’t have called.” 

“I got her into this mess, so obviously I have to get her out.”

“You should have waited! I would have said yes!” 

“I’m assuming you’re Anne.” Mary’s calm voice cuts through the madness. She is smiling, warm, and welcoming. There is a maternal aura about her that has nothing to do with the fact that she is six months pregnant and wearing a muumuu to the office because her closet’s shrunk overnight. 

“Yes,” Anne squeaks. “Hi.”

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.” 

“Likewise,” she returns. 

Bash, who is still mad but senses an opportunity to embarrass his brother, chimes in over Mary’s shoulder. “You are much more beautiful than Gilbert gives you credit for, and Gilbert thinks you’re practically Helen of Troy.” 

Gilbert wants to hang up the call to save himself the embarassment.

Mary, mercifully, puts an end to Bash’s teasing. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

He and Anne sit down on the couch across from the monitor and he ignores the pleasure he feels at her body heat so close to his own. 

“How long do you think they’ll be like this? There’s got to be more interesting things happening in the world. Should we pull Winnie into this? To get them off Anne’s back? I know she’d be willing to help. Or maybe we should—” and so on and so forth. Gilbert is rambling at this point, nervous like a guilty child trying to avoid admitting fault. 

Mary rolls her eyes. She has that look she uses when she’s trying not to trivialize his feelings but Gilbert is being _so incredibly dumb_ she can’t quite control her facial muscles. “Be seen together at a couple of events so the press gets off your back and then quietly break up. No harm, no foul.”

She presents it like it’s the easiest solution in the world except that Gilbert doesn’t want to break up, quietly or otherwise. But he also doesn’t want to use a situation he unwittingly concocted to put the moves on Anne and resolves to tell the truth. 

“I’ll just tell everyone it’s a huge misunderstanding. Anne’s just a friend.” Which doesn’t dispel the rumor that Gilbert has been carrying a torch for this particular friend since he was 13 but one problem at a time, he supposes.

“I’m fine with it,” Anne piques up. She looks deeply uncomfortable when everyone turns their attention her way. “I mean a few public appearances isn’t too much to ask. I don’t want to jeopardize Gilbert’s reputation or make him the butt of people’s jokes. Plus, I might be spending the summer in LA anyway so it won’t be too much of a hassle to go along with it.” 

Anne looks regretful as soon the words are spoken. She tries to push past it, opens her mouth to continue the sentence, but Gilbert stops her.

“You’re going to be in LA? For an entire summer?”

She again fiddles with a hole in the knee of her overalls. “Yeah, I got an internship at a publishing house based out there. Jack and Jumper.”

“Anne, that’s great! Congratulations! But . . . when exactly were you going to tell me?”

Bash and Mary fade into the background at this point, he is so singularly focused on Anne.

“Oh Gil, I meant to tell you ages ago, but it never really came up. And I’m sure you’d figure it out eventually once you got a letter with a California return address on it. And, anyways, nothing’s set in stone _—_ the internship is unpaid and rent’s not exactly cheap out there and _—_ and, well, I would hate to be so far away from Marilla. Her health isn’t as good as it used to be.” 

“Does Marilla know?”

“No, of course not. Are you kidding me? She would’ve sent me packing on the next available flight out if she knew.”

“Then don’t be so silly. Marilla would want you to go and J&J Publishing is huge. This is an amazing opportunity for you!”

“I don’t have the money to jetset off to the States, Gilbert. I’m barely making enough for living expenses in Charlottetown as it is.” 

“I’ll help you. As it so happens, I have an excess of money.”

She fixes him a stare, as if _he_ is the one being ridiculous. “I’m not accepting your charity, Gilbert Blythe.” 

“Then don’t think of it as charity. Think of this as a business deal. You pretend to be my girlfriend for a summer and I’ll let you rent out my pool house at a discounted price. Win-win.”

Anne shakes her head. “There is no way that this is a fair deal.”

“And I’ve never claimed to be a _good_ businessman. Anne, if anything, _you’re_ doing _me_ the favor. I’m the one who fucked up by opening my mouth.” 

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Bash chimes in with his two cents. Mary nods, the mastermind behind it all. 

Anne eventually, begrudgingly, agrees. 

“So it’s settled then?” Mary asks. “You both have a torrid summer romance and then quietly drift apart.”

“Deal?” Gilbert looks at Anne.

She nods her head, a curt bob that knocks a stray curl loose. Gilbert resists the urge to brush it back.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint, it almost looks like I know where I’m going with this story. A lot of set-up, a lot of dialogue, and some heavy-handed descriptions. But I'm having fun with it. Let me know what you think! (Words of affirmation are my love language, after all.) 
> 
> Also wanted to thank everyone for the lovely comments + kudos you’ve left so far. Consensual forehead kisses all around! I’m just stunned any of you read anything that I write, including these author’s notes, which are ridiculous. Please accept this Second Forehead Kiss as a token of my eternal appreciation.


	4. four

Gilbert tosses and turns throughout the night. Stares at the analog alarm clock glowing fluorescent green in the dark—1:47 AM. Recites a random scene from memory, playing all three parts, to pass the time—1:53 AM. Closes his eyes and counts sheep until he’s sick of it—1:55 AM. 

Finally, around 2:30 AM with no rest in sight, Gilbert settles for sneaking into the living room and ordering a movie on Demand, a mindless buddy-cop flick he can watch at half-attention. The volume is turned down so low it’s negligible, but he turns on closed captioning despite being able to predict the dialogue regardless. He settles into a comfortable position, cocooned safely inside his blanket, and tries to make as little noise as possible.

After they hang up the call with Bash and Mary, the two of them pick at steak dinners before Anne retreats quietly into her room. She isn’t mad at him, he doesn't think, but there is a tension between them he can’t explain, and hangs thick in the air like a burial shroud. He lingers in the common room for another hour afterwards, half-hopeful she’d join him and half-dreading that she would. But in the end, she remains locked away and Gilbert withdraws with a heavy heart for bed. 

They mapped out a rough timeline and sunset for the relationship, which was a surgical yet surreal experience. He’s not sure he contributes as much as he just straps in for the ride. Mary spends the majority of the phone call identifying dates and events to swan about town, best times to show their faces and keep the media at bay. The rest of the time is dedicated to laying out a media plan as well, determining which outlets will get which rumor to slip into the public consciousness.

The first few leaks will be tame affirmations of Billy’s tell-all—just enough to validate, but not enough to vindicate—followed closely by insights into their honeymoon period, and then a period of strategic silence, before news abounds about trouble in paradise. The early prognosis is a mutual split, a recognition of the fact that they’re no longer kids in high school but adults who have grown in different directions. They love each other, but aren’t _in_ love with each other and so remain committed to being friends. 

“Easy come, easy go,” Bash grins. 

Officially, their relationship ends on the same day as Anne’s internship and the week before Gilbert’s birthday in September. He vaguely wonders if she’d stay a little longer to celebrate it together, or if the end of their deal signals her departure as well.

On screen, the genre-obligated car chase scene pulls Gilbert away from his wallowing. At the tail-end of an explosion, he hears a sliding door opening to his right.

He watches Anne step out in an oversized T-shirt and glasses. Her feet are bare and he can just make out the green shade of her toenails peeking out from beneath her pajama bottoms. 

“Sorry, is the volume too loud? I didn’t mean to wake you.” He makes a grab for the remote, finger hovering over the mute button. 

Anne shakes her head and sits criss-cross applesauce on the couch, wrapping her arms around a throw pillow like a shield. “I couldn't sleep either and figured I might as well join you.” 

“Do you want me to rewind to the beginning?” he offers. “The movie just started.” 

She glances briefly at the screen, just in time to see the older, wizened cop getting paired with the rookie hotshot. Says “no, it’s okay. I think I got the gist of it” and settles in.

They spend another 20 minutes in companionable silence, through most of the exposition. He waits for some sort of commentary on the script or the composition of scenes, any opening for conversation, but she doesn’t utter a peep. Gilbert eventually turns up the volume, mostly because he keeps missing sizable chunks of the captioning while stealing side-long glances at Anne. 

She appears pensive, body angled at attention but vacant in expression. The glow from the television suffuses her in a cool, blue light that darkens her hair and blanches her skin. Like Jane and Rochester’s first meeting, she is a sprite conjured from fantasy. 

Gilbert understands her reverie, but feels uneasy because of it. Her quiet mulling is a stark contrast to her normally verbose nature; long gone are the days where she talks the ear off of anyone within reach. Anne is older now, internalizes things more, and is infinitely harder to read. It puts Gilbert on shakier ground, not knowing where he stands.

_Maybe things will be different in the morning_. He and Anne are heading back to Queens, spending the day tying up loose ends and packing up the rest of her things before flying out to LA. Mary has already hired out a maid service to tidy up the pool house and delegated decoration duties to her personal assistant. His house is the epitome of a bachelor pad with minimal furnishings and a perpetually empty fridge. In Gilbert’s defense, he is rarely home given his filming and promotion schedules. At the very least, he owns a bed frame from West Elm he picked out himself.

Plus, Anne would be living in the pool house out back, a separate attachment altogether. They’re barely even cohabiting seeing as how the pool house comes equipped with a full bath and kitchenette. If anything, Gilbert is closer to Anne’s landlord than a roommate (and when was the last time anyone ever romanticized their landlord?)

But he doesn’t want to dwell on their living situation.

This was a business deal, after all. Purely business.

Plus, the power imbalance between them puts him on edge. Gilbert refuses to take advantage of the situation and thus resolves to get over her. Or at the very least, keep his emotions in check. 

Twelfth time’s the charm, right? 

The room is warm. Gilbert is close to drifting, eyes fluttering open and close, when he hears a quiet rustling and is surprised to see Anne moving closer. 

“I’m cold,” she says by way of explanation, scooting her toes beneath the blanket first before slowly submerging her body beneath it. 

Suddenly, sleep feels like a distant memory.

Gilbert curses the fact that his comforter is large enough to accommodate the two of them comfortably. Anne could probably have stayed at the far end of the couch and still be covered, so there’s no reason her right thigh should be sidled up next to his own. But he is surprised to feel the warm press of it in the dark, not even skin to skin contact but enough to drive Gilbert insane. 

Anne looks unbothered, eyes fixed straight ahead at the TV screen. Evil. 

All thoughts of nobility are tossed out the window. In fact, all thought period has ceased to exist. Gilbert’s lucky if he has any functioning brain cells not immediately preoccupied with her proximity still left to take in air. 

_Maybe this is a sign,_ he thinks _._ The long-awaited green light from Anne after years.

Maybe she wants him to yawn and stretch his arm behind her, to rest it oh so casually on her shoulder and eventually bring her in? Or, alternatively, what if this is the exact wrong time to make a move, when they’ve already agreed to date like it's a contractual business deal, and she really is just chilly? They haven’t established the boundaries of this new relationship and Gilbert can’t be sure he isn’t crossing one right now. 

His hesitation, in and of itself, seems to answer some unspoken question she’s posited without him knowing. 

Anne makes a tactical retreat. She moves her leg and the heat it provides leeches swiftly from his skin. 

He is confused, and devastated, but somewhat hopeful.

She hasn’t moved to put any further distance between them, at least. 

Maybe he can fix this (whatever he did to break it?)

“Gil?” Anne whispers, legs to chest. She rests her head on top of her knees and looks so small, so incredibly fragile in this moment. “Promise me things won’t change between us. That we’ll always be friends, no matter what happens.” 

This is the last thing he’d been expecting. Although Gilbert’s annoyed that he had expectations in the first place. 

His chest feels tight all of a sudden, accompanied by a pinched feeling in the bridge of his nose. Gilbert can only nod in response, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.

It tastes a little bit like heartbreak.

-

They finish the rest of the movie in silence and following its conclusion, go their separate ways to bed.

-

Bash sends him a text in the morning letting Gilbert know that he’s cleared off the rest of his schedule for the week. It’s almost like a vacation, except Gilbert feels everything but relaxed. 

He tries his best not to dwell on the events of last night. Fundamentally, nothing is different. Gilbert had already resolved to get over Anne and she made it painstakingly clear she just wants to be friends. History is cyclical like that.

Thus, much of the morning is spent lazing around, bleary-eyed and staring up at the ceiling. His body temperature runs hot and cold and he passes the time alternating which leg he sticks out from beneath the comforter. Sluggishly, his mind moves from one topic to the next, unconnected non sequiturs deliberate in that none of them remind him of Anne.

Speaking of whom, he can faintly hear shuffling around in the common area. They didn’t set a concrete schedule, so there isn’t any timetable to follow, but it’s a quarter to noon and Gilbert is probably drawing close to his maximum allotted time for wallowing. 

He also hears humming and the sound of the coffee machine going. The smell is enough to draw him from bed, at least. 

He glances briefly at his reflection in the mirror, satisfied that his hair isn’t a total wreck and his perpetually dark eye bags fall on the more tasteful side of sallow. Having left his suitcase behind in his haste to get to Queens, Gilbert only hopes his only outfit isn’t visibly disgusting. Honestly, if years of celebrity and public scrutiny has not made Gilbert vain, then being in such close quarters with Anne for the next few months just might. 

He goes to open the door and almost gives himself a heart attack. Anne is on the other side, one hand raised as if to knock and the other holding a fresh mug of coffee. She yelps in surprise, jerks suddenly enough for a drop or two to spill over the brim but thankfully avoids disaster.

“Oh God,” she breathes. “What great timing. I was just about to grab you.”

“I didn’t peg you for a coffee person,” he comments, taking a sip out of the proffered mug. Somehow, Anne managed to make hotel coffee taste almost artisanal.

“I’m not, but I know you are.” She points to her own drink on the counter, the smell of chamomile wafting over. Dappled sunlight filters in through the curtains and colors the suite a warm, golden shade. Her overnight bag is packed and lined up by the coat closet, patiently waiting to go.

“Thanks.”

There is an awkward pause while Gilbert moves to get situated at the table. He sweeps off a few of the crumbs from last night’s dinner and Anne joins him shortly, delicate fingers wrapped around the base of her mug.

“So what now?” he asks, when he can’t stand the silence. “You need to go back to Queens right?” 

Anne skews her lip in thought, before replying, “Probably not. I did the majority of my packing last week in a fit of madness.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow. The Anne he knows never does chores if she can help it. Not because she hates them, but because she often forgets or finds a more imaginative use of her time.

“For my Russian Lit paper,” Anne explains. A fate worse than chores. “I couldn’t read another word of Dostoevsky at the risk of going insane and so channeled that energy into clearing out my room instead. My last final is on Friday and it’s just an online submission, so I was planning on going back to Avonlea early anyways.”

Gilbert feels guilty all over again, even though it wasn’t her intention. Anne probably hasn’t seen Marilla in months and LA is a whole helluva lot further from Avonlea than Charlottestown. 

“You’re making that face again.” Anne sips calmly at her tea. Her hair is down today, side bangs neatly swept away with a blue-green barrette. 

“What?”

“You’re making that face again,” she repeats. “The one you make right before you’re going to apologize for something unnecessarily.”

“You think apologizing for effectively upsetting your entire life is unnecessary?” 

She rolls her eyes, like the swirl of ocean swells. “Once is fine, but every conversation we have from here on out is a tad overkill, no?” 

“It has to be said,” Gilbert insists. “I’m taking advantage of your kindness.” 

Anne takes half a second to consider and answers with laughter. “I’m having you foot the bill for an all-expenses paid summer while I rub elbows with the rich and famous and somehow, I’m the one being taken advantage of?” 

Her grin is infectious, toothy and wide. Gilbert feels the tension leave him in waves. “It can’t possibly be more expensive than paying for international postage every week.” 

“Thank you kindly. Those Forever stamps must have cost a fortune,” she snorts. 

“I’m referring more to the hit on my reputation. How am I supposed to be an international lady killer while sneaking off to send letters to my girlfriend abroad? The mail men must laugh at me every time.” 

Anne polishes off the rest of her tea, even though the temperature was surely still scalding. “Good thing nobody else has to know. We can drop off our letters in your mailbox, from now on.”

The sentiment catches Gilbert’s attention despite the off-hand manner in which she said it. “You’re still going to write me letters?”

“Of course,” Anne says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can’t promise you they’ll be very long, seeing as how you’ll know pretty much everything going on in my life and I’m utterly incapable of shutting up at any given time _—_ but it’s tradition!” She pauses, almost affronted when she asks, “Were you . . . not going to continue?” 

Gilbert scoffs at her dramatics. “After moving in together, I wouldn't be surprised if you start to hate the sound of my voice, much less want to read it in written form.”

“Gil, I love listening to what you have to say. I always look forward to your letters.” 

He doesn’t have the time to bask in Anne’s admission because her phone chimes and she has a brief conversation with someone on the other line. 

“That was Jane. She’s just dropped off my things at the front desk. I’m gonna go down and grab my bag and then we can head over to the airport, yeah?” 

Gilbert nods, checking his watch. It was another three hours before their departure time, but Mary had sent over the instructions for the first part of the plan.

Operation: Airport Canoodling.

Clearly, Bash had come up with it.

-

They manage to leave unaccosted by paparazzi, Hilton security sneaking them through the back entrance and into a nondescript car.

It feels weird, returning to this airport with Anne, but instead of leaving behind his childhood, he’s bringing a part of it with him to LA. Anne appears nervous but bright-eyed despite it, attention drifting from corner to corner trying to take it all in. She’s never flown before and has never seen an airport past the security checkpoint. She is fascinated by the vending machines that only dispense makeup and kiosks dedicated exclusively to neck pillows.

The Charlottetown airport is small, only a single terminal wide, but full of people and families flying in and out for summer holidays. Anne and Gilbert can’t separate themselves through the use of VIP lounges and even so, distancing wasn’t a part of the plan. According to Mary, the goal is to be seen, and so far they've achieved that: Gilbert can feel curious gazes all around him and not so secretive photos being taken. Only a few younger girls approach him for autographs, and he obliges. Anne is relegated to photographer duty, which she doesn’t mind, composes each shot and needles Gilbert to smile wider. 

The girls linger as they depart, casting shifty eyes between him and Anne before the tallest of their group, a blonde with pink streaks, squeaks out, “Your girlfriend’s very pretty!” as they collectively scurry away. Anne stares after them, a smile on her lips. 

“Your fans are sweet.”

Most of the time, he’s inclined to agree. 

They make the most of their three hours holding hands and wandering through shops. Mary’s plan is vague, but she trusts him to execute what little material is given: bare bones instructions to act cute and in love. Anne gives blanket consent to do whatever he thinks is best, but Gilbert’s already deliriously happy just holding hands. Something about the way she absently strokes his wrist with her thumb is enough to drive him insane and more than once Gilbert misses the end of a sentence so Anne has to repeat herself over and over again.

Eventually, they wind up in a bookstore where Gilbert pouts because Anne’s attention is focused entirely on picking out something good to read on the plane ride to LA. It’s a 12 hour trip, including layovers, and in that time span Anne could rip through at least a book and a half. He likes the way she loses herself in the pages, hair framing her face like a curtain as she skims the opening paragraphs.

It harkens back to quieter moments in their friendship, before everything changed. They could spend hours in each other’s presence, never speaking once. Or spend hours together, the only sounds in the room their voices exchanging quips on a battery of different topics. He misses that dynamic, of which they slip into only in smaller instances. Being with Anne is harder now, and doesn’t come as naturally. They had so much to talk about through their letters that Gilbert’s afraid they’ve run out of things to talk about in person and without the ease of childhood to buffer their silence, it feels suffocating and heavy.

Gilbert certainly doesn’t want to spend the entire summer pushing Anne’s buttons, just to get a rise out of her, and to hear the sound of Anne’s voice in a conversation beyond the perfunctory “How are you?”s and “What do you want for dinner?”s.

He’s not sure what he's thinking, staring at the broad of Anne’s back and trying his best to ignore the small of her waist. Maybe he misses the intimacy of their connection and wants to recreate it physically, or maybe he really is going insane. But his fingers itch terribly and he doesn’t hesitate this time. 

Aware of the eyes and paparazzi lenses pointed at them, Gilbert makes the decision to wrap his arms around Anne’s middle, pressing back to chest in one smooth, perfect fit. He is surprised to feel her relax into the embrace, twisting her neck so that she could see his face without compromising the composition of their bodies. There is a question in her eyes, but no resistance. Total trust. 

He lingers in this arrangement, as if he could morph them together through sheer will alone. By the way Anne doesn’t move, perhaps she isn’t unwilling either. 

“C’mon,” he says, after Gilbert finally finds his voice. “We’ve got a plane to catch.” 

He draws the line, though, at kissing her nose. Even though the tip of it calls to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne is a Pisces sun, Aquarius moon, and Leo rising // Gilbert is a Virgo sun, Cancer moon, Taurus rising. This is Fact and this is Canon. Please drop your own natal chart + headcanons in a comment so I know who to trust around these parts.


	5. five

Bash sends a security detail when they touch down in LAX, silently enforcing distance from the masses as Gilbert and Anne make their way through baggage claim. Gilbert feels especially refreshed having spent the majority of the plane ride catching up on lost sleep, staying awake just long enough to watch Anne’s expressions during liftoff and touchdown before conking out cold. 

She stares in wonderment out the window, tracing cloud formations against the glass with the tips of her fingers and takes more near-identical pictures of the sunset than is humanly possible; she screws her eyes shut and fake-yawns widely, a futile effort to relieve the building pressure in her ears. In that far-off way of Anne’s, she describes to Gilbert the migratory patterns of birds, of creatures not yet discovered because they are hidden away in the stratosphere, and about the mythology of stars. 

Gilbert leans back in his seat, body angled and right cheek pressed to his headrest to better view Anne. She chatters without the need for a partner in conversation, posing questions she answers herself and tells jokes without punchlines because she’s already finished them in her head. Gilbert tries his best to listen, to valiantly stay awake, but his eyes flutter twice before he eventually succumbs to slumber, soft dreams like pastel chiffon.

He’s only awoken by a spot of turbulence during descent, the sudden jerking motion making his teeth chatter inside his head. The plane eventually straightens out before hitting the runway and he is almost embarrassed that Anne is the type of person who claps after landing; doesn’t even look around to make sure others are clapping along, so single-mindedly earnest in her joy. Everything she does is endearing to him. 

"Shhh!" she whispers, slipping him a contraband package of cookies as he rubs the rest from his eyes. Her grin is infectious. "I had to bribe the flight attendants for an extra one because I know Biscoffs are your favorite." She stands to say goodbye to those very attendants and promises to keep in touch as they begin to deboard the plane. O _f course_ Anne had made friends with them during the course of the flight. Like everyone else, they'd been pulled into Anne’s gravitational orbit. 

The male attendant winks at Gilbert as they pass, coquettish and bold. “Good luck!” he calls to their retreating backs while his female counterpart dissolves into a fit of giggles so shrill, it could be heard from a mile away.

Anne blushes and soldiers on, not glancing back as they start the descent down the jet bridge. 

“What was that about?” He glances at her curiously.

“Nothing!” she chirps and changes the subject. "So what does the celebrity terminal in LAX look like?”

Gilbert hesitates, on the verge of pressing her when she bats her big, blue-gray eyes at him and he is forced to acquiesce. “Like any other terminal, but richer.” They make their way quickly out the airport, thanks to their security detail who succeed at keeping away the more persistent of reporters

It is raining by the time they hop into their Uber, far from sheets but enough to give the windshield wipers a workout. Something about being on American soil relaxes Anne; makes her breathe easier despite the oppressively bad air quality driving through downtown LA. She would have rolled down the windows if not for the weather and on account of the fact that she is dressed in white, the Bride of Adventure on her way to meet her groom.

Gilbert lives in a modest mansion out in Silver Lake, an oxymoron in and of itself, to avoid sticking out in the ritzy neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and Bel Air. But then again, maybe he can appreciate the bald-faced wealth of its residents rather than stomach the false modesty of $30 juice shots and marked-up vintage consignment stores. Which isn’t to say Gilbert is entirely unaffected - he exclusively drinks oat milk and lives in a mansion by himself. But at least he’s self-aware, to a degree. 

Anne practically vibrates when they pull up past the security gate and into Gilbert’s driveway, marveling at the Tudor-style home atop a hill with a wrap-around staircase carved into the side of the slope. It is surrounded by lush, green flora and panoramic views of the Santa Monica Mountain rage, lit up by fairy lights on delicate strings strewn haphazardly across the veranda. Down to the tidy stack of chopped firewood by the tool shed, he is trying to evoke the feeling of summer nights in Avonlea. It is as pastoral an experience Gilbert can afford in Los Angeles, a slice of home when he’s a whole country away. 

“Gilbert, I love it!” Anne breathes before slipping like water out the door. Gilbert trails after her, making sure to swipe the phone and luggage she leaves in the backseat in her determination to explore. He feels something akin to pride even though all he did was pay off a real estate agent to acquire his home. To his credit, Gilbert toured a lot of chromatic, glass-encased duds before realizing he wanted to stick to something more rustic (or as rustic as a six-bedroom mansion in the heart of Silver Lake can get).

He unlocks the door through an app on his phone, trailing behind Anne as she runs up the staircase two steps at a time. The rain has lightened significantly, a gentle misting by now, but he still warns her to be careful and watch her step.

She scoffs, sure-footed as ever. Anne pushes open the door and disappears into the house. 

Gilbert notes the obvious changes when entering **–** namely, the fact that he has furniture and the movie posters he tacked up on the walls in an attempt to decorate has been properly framed. None of them are his own films **—** Gilbert is not _that_ pretentious **—** but an assortment of movies that have fundamentally influenced his craft or low-brow comedies he watched with his dad growing up. The smell of burning cedar wood is like a balm and he finds he likes the symphony of crackling fire and Anne’s footfall overhead.

“This place is huge!” her voice drifts down from the banisters. “Can I take a look through these rooms?” 

“Go ahead!” Gilbert isn’t home for long enough to develop a need for privacy. There are no personal effects he keeps lying around and certain spaces he hasn’t stepped foot in since touring the house. Plus, with maid service coming in and out twice a week, Gilbert’s long since shed any insecurities about having strangers in his home. 

He sets Anne’s things down on the island and goes to pour himself some water. When she hasn’t reappeared ten minutes later, he sets off to investigate her absence. 

Gilbert meanders through his three-story home, past several open rooms and his impressive office space decorated with wall to wall books. He has spent a lot of time over the years curating his collection and is surprised not to see Anne perusing medical texts or marveling at the antique writing desk displayed in the center. He finds no trace of her upstairs before circling back to the ground floor; none in the lower level, which Gilbert has repurposed into a movie theater. It is only the sound of the rain starting up again that he thinks to check the veranda. 

Sure enough, he finds Anne settled on a porch swing with her legs curled up beside her. An errant wind raises gooseflesh on her arms, but she doesn’t seem to notice. There is a far-off look in her eyes, no doubt playing out some fantasy in her brain as she surveys the mountains on her right and Los Angeles to the west.

“Do you ever feel small,” she whispers, blinking away her thoughts. She is suddenly present again and looking right at him. “In the middle of all this?” 

Gilbert is startled, having lost track of time and unsure of how long he’s stood there and watched her breathe. He tries to play it off, shrugs and takes a seat on a lounge chair across from her. “Can’t say I’ve considered it.” 

From the ottoman at his feet, Gilbert pulls out a throw blanket and passes it to Anne. She hums her appreciation as she wraps herself thoroughly in the yellow-yarned layer, the white of her face peeking out like a delicate, babushka doll. She smiles and returns to her contemplation of the scenery. 

Gilbert’s veranda is situated beside the pool, a modest Bermuda affair considering the size of the house. The pool is the most modern aspect of the property, but feels a bit like an afterthought considering the gravitas of its historical inspirations. The previous owner was new-money and thought the biggest signifier of wealth was a backyard pool and so set about landscaping his English garden into an aseptic barbeque hotspot. A crying shame, when he could imagine Anne spending hours hosting tea parties and Easter Sunday egg hunts. 

A fantasy he files away for later.

Evening casts Anne’s face in shadows. The string of lights overhead are dimmed somewhat by the rain while pool lights illuminate everything with the shifting quality of the water’s reflection. The rain is a steady drumbeat around them, but cut with the sound of crickets and nightlife to lessen its oppressive intensity.

They are quiet for a spell, before Gilbert ventures to ask, “So how are you feeling?” 

He worries that she is overwhelmed and second-guessing herself and her decision to date him (if only for the press). 

Anne smiles, small but present, which does wonders to lift the heaviness he feels in believing she is more homesick than pensive. “Excited, mostly. I dare say Los Angeles provides quite the scope for imagination.”

“Lots of fodder, then, for your novel.” Anne has been working on one off and on since last September. Still, she refuses to name the plot or characters or even its title, despite Gilbert’s expert prodding. 

“If I ever find the time to write. Between you and Cole and my internship, my schedule is packed to the brim.” 

Gilbert raises an eyebrow. “Cole? From school? I thought he was back in Charlottetown?” 

“He transferred to CalArts last semester and has been thriving ever since.” There is a sparkle of pride in Anne’s eye. He knows that two of them grew especially close after Gilbert left and was even jealous of the boy, for a while, before Anne explained the circumstances of Cole’s harassment at school. “Anyways, I told him I was going to be spending the summer in L.A. and he’s been bugging to come visit me ever since. Apparently, he’s drafted up an entire itinerary of things to do during my stay and people he wants me to meet. He won’t let relinquish even a second of free time.” 

“And tomorrow?”

Anne tilts her head in confusion. “What about tomorrow?”

“Any plans for it?”

Realization dawns and she shakes her head no. “Just settling in, mostly. I don’t have much to unpack but it would be nice just to breathe. Maybe journal. These past few days have gone by in a blur.” 

“Well if you’re up for it, I would love to take you to my favorite Indian place in Silver Lake. Extremely low-key. The owners are great.” 

He suggests it in a way that falls on the line of friendship but could easily be misconstrued as a date. Gilbert’s not sure where he finds the bravery to ask, or if he should even constitute asking Anne out for dinner as bravery. It is the natural progression of their relationship and something regular friends do, but Gilbert can’t count the number of times he almost asked her out in high school but swallowed his tongue instead. 

There are times when Gilbert swears she feels the same way. A certain way of looking at him, an ease she doesn’t have with anyone else, or the act of exchanging letters across oceans for the better part of three years: it all adds up to Anne Shirley Cuthbert being just as mad for him as he is and has always been about her. But so easily, Anne will shatter the illusion with an off-hand comment about their friendship or tactical retreats when their banter edges too close to flirting. 

She remains, as always, an enigma. 

“I’ve never had Indian food before. How exciting!” 

They sit outside for another hour, talking and watching the storm pack up and leave. Anne stretches out like a cat while Gilbert heads inside to grab her things. Together, they head toward the other end of the pool where Anne’s lodgings lie. 

The pool house is a squat, rectangular building constructed out of stone, glass, and mortar. Mary’s assistant put up blue corn curtains for privacy and installed a digital combination lock, just in case, even though Anne is definitely the type to set her security code to 1234 so she doesn’t forget. Inside, an unconventional daybed is pushed up elegantly against the wall. There is a kitchenette with a bar, a fruit bowl on a two-person table in the corner, and a closet with sliding, mirrored doors. The rest of the furniture is mismatched in style and color but uniform in their zany eclection; a bohemian vibe he knows that Anne is partial to. 

She hums appreciatively as she circles the space, picking up and putting down little knick knacks scattered haphazardly throughout the room. Crystals, decorative pieces, and coffee table books. 

A designer candle encased in rose quartz attempts to neutralize the cloying smell of chlorine.

“It’s no mansion,” she jokes, craning her neck over her shoulder to toss him a smile, “but I guess it will do.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Gilbert says, every backwards step he takes feeling heavier and heavier. He is hesitant to leave, not wanting to return to a stasis where they are physically apart. The last two days have gone a long way in making up for lost time and Gilbert is greedy for more despite having a whole summer stretched out ahead of them.

When he makes it to the door and she still hasn’t stopped him, Gilbert finally admits defeat and skulks back to his mansion. He doesn’t turn around for one last look though, just in case she’s able to see how much like a kicked puppy he looks through the curtain when he leaves. 

-

Of the million and one things that confuse him about their contract relationship, one of them is whether or not he and Anne would take meals together in this living arrangement. Dinner is easy because they’ve already decided on going to Indian together, but what about breakfast and lunch? Or every other meal moving forward? What are the rules of cohabitation? 

Gilbert suspects he’s overthinking this when he wakes up early the next morning to prepare toast and eggs. He’s not sure if the minifridge in the pool house was stocked up before they arrived, but is reasonably confident he can whip up a scramble without burning the house down. 

Probably after his dad died, Gilbert should have learned to become more self-sufficient. But his rise to fame was almost meteoric and so the time allotted for growing up and learning his way around the world was supplanted with work and promotional events and hedonism in the early days. His culinary skills are abysmal and Gilbert’s lucky if anything he cooks is even suitable for human consumption. 

But he tries, for Anne. 

When he’s reasonably sure the eggs are on their way to cooking, he shoots her a text.

_Made breakfast (eggs and toast). Wasn’t sure if you had food in the fridge or felt hungry or even eat breakfast in the first place, but feel free to pop over._

_Also, just in case this wasn’t clear, please make yourself at home. If you want to watch TV in the living room, or borrow a book, or anything like that, you’re always welcome! And you don’t have to ask permission._

_P.S. (Can I use P.S. in a text?) Feels weird texting you when I’m used to our written communications being strictly pen and paper. Unsure if I’m allowed to use emojis or if it will shatter the illusion. Please advise._

**_Shut up, you absolute dork._ **

**_On my way!_ **

**_:-)_ **

_Of course you type out your emojis. I don’t know what else I expected._

**_(ง'̀-'́)ง_ **

-

Gilbert does slightly charr the toast, but Anne scraps off the black bits with her butter knife and digs in. 

Having not much in terms of worldly possessions and even less when it came to things she’d willingly remove from Green Gables to Queens, Anne understandably brings next to nothing to L.A. It took her all of 20 minutes to unpack and despite claiming fatigue the night before, is overcome with a sense of adventure. She is itching to see all the sights and meet all the people and eat animal style fries from In-N-Out as it relates to poutine (the latter is superior, in Gilbert’s expert Canadian opinion). 

She pulls up an online travel guide on her phone and points to all the things she wants to do and asks his opinions on activities to prioritize. 

“I don’t really know,” he admits, spreading an unhealthy amount of apple preserves onto his toast. If anything, the toast is merely a vehicle for the preserves and Gilbert polishes the slice in three easy bites; chokes it down dry without even one sip of water. “I don’t really get out much.” 

Anne points at a corner of her mouth to indicate the crumbs he’s no doubt left behind. “At all?”

Like a child, he lassos his tongue around the perimeter of his lips and uses the back of his hand to wipe away any residual saliva. Anne makes a face halfway between amusement and disgust, but doesn’t comment. “Not for sight-seeing, anyway. Although I have been on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”

She gasps in surprise. “Gilbert, do you have _a star_?” 

“I haven’t been in the industry long enough to qualify,” he points out.

“So it’s only a matter of time, then.” Anne is entirely matter of fact, nodding her head as if to affirm the obvious.

Gilbert picks at the last few bites of his omelette, pushing it around half-heartedly with his fork. “I doubt filming a couple of dystopian films for teens is going to put me over the edge with the decision board.” 

If Gilbert sounds bitter, it’s because he is. Anne had unwittingly stumbled upon a nerve, rubbed raw from a recent rejection. It must show on his face as well, because Anne purses her lips and dives in.

“Gil, what’s wrong?” 

He considers lying or at least evading the question. But the earnest way she is angled towards him, body language radiating empathy without knowing the context **–** Gilbert hesitates. He’s so used to baring his soul over letters, using that degree of separation as a barrier, it feels unnatural to relay his problems in-person.

He takes a breath. “The other day, before this all went down, I was originally in Toronto for a press event but stayed an extra day to go to an open casting call. The director’s relatively unknown, only a handful of credits as an AD for a home improvement show years ago, but I saw her debut work at a film festival by chance and knew whatever she did next, I wanted to be a part of it.” 

“What was the film about?” Anne’s curiosity is piqued. She rests her chin in the palms of her hands, elbows spread on the counter. She is dressed for the day in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, pale legs somehow folded beneath her on the stool. 

“It’s a character study on a widow who gets involved with a much younger man.”

“And you auditioned for the role of the young man, I’m assuming.” 

Gilbert scratches the back of his neck. It hurts his pride to admit that, “I didn’t even get to audition. They took one look at me and passed.” 

At the very least, Anne looks outraged on his behalf, which partially assuages his ego. “What? Why?” 

“Something about how my resume speaks for itself and they’ve seen enough to know that I’m not what they’re looking for.” 

“What does that _even mean_?”

Gilbert gathers up the empty plates and utensils, suddenly needing something to do his hands. He twists the faucet to spit out warm water and suds up a sponge with lemon-scented dish soap, the circular motions of washing almost therapeutic in a way. His back is to Anne and he knows she can see the hard, tense lines of his shoulders, but she is patient in waiting for Gilbert to open up. He will tell her, in his own time. 

A minute passes, and then another.

Eventually, after collecting his thoughts, Gilbert responds, “I’m not exactly Daniel Day-Lewis. The public loves me because I look like the boy next door, not because I’m going to be winning acting awards any time soon. Directors— _serious_ directors, ones with vision and creativity and craftsmanship—won’t even give me the time of day.” 

“What about Gemma? And _Wuthering Heights_?” He can see her gearing up for an argument on behalf of his honor. 

“I was a producer’s pick for Hareton and nobody cares about _Hareton —_I’m just there to bring in a younger audience and make Oliver Osmond look better as Heathcliffe.” 

“Plenty of people care about Hareton!” she explodes, leaping out of her chair. 

“Oh yeah?” Gilbert challenges, feeling his good humor return to him. The way Anne is worked up, fists clenched like a heated child and eyebrows folded into the angry crease on her forehead; how willing she is to go to bat for the people she cares about - he can only fall for her deeper. “Who’s your favorite character then?” 

He knows the answer as sure as he knows the color of the sky. Anne is a sucker for tragical heroes. 

“Heathcliffe,” she pouts, like Gilbert’s backed her into a corner. “But that’s besides the point!”

Gilbert towels off the plates and holds back a laugh. “It’s fine, Anne. I’ve been rejected before.”

“It obviously bothers you, this time in particular.” She puts on her metaphorical deerstalker and assumes the role of Sherlock Holmes. Never one to take no for an answer, she won’t drop the case until she gets to the bottom of Gilbert’s psyche.

“Well yeah,” he sighs, because Gilbert’s never been one to tell her no in the first place. “I feel like I’m constantly trying to dig myself out of the Riders’ hole and prove to people that I’m capable of more. I don’t want to be known as a one-note actor or another pretty face in a franchise of pretty faces. I want to be taken seriously and to be respected for my craft. But how can I do that if no one will give me the chance?”

Gilbert’s frustration is palpable but resigned. He’s had similar conversations with Bash over the last few months watching the final cuts of _Wuthering Heights_ come together in post, thinking back on his experiences during shoot.

Gemma lived up to his expectations of a once in a lifetime talent: zany and ridiculous and incredibly hard to please. She would schedule reshoots for all hours of the day and was known to cut takes before a word was even spoken. But for all of her quirks and peculiarities, it was her kindness that drove Gilbert insane. Pointed and obvious in a way she wasn’t around other actors, like an invisible hand was applying pressure behind the scenes. It was an open secret on set that Gilbert wasn’t her first choice for Hareton. 

While nobody, either on cast or crew, treated him in any way to suggest he was a social pariah, Gilbert still imagined and internalized their judgement. Despite Winnie’s best efforts, his isolation was born of guilt.

While he is thankful for the opportunity to work with Gemma, Gilbert wonders if he would have been better off passing on a role he didn’t otherwise deserve. If his career trajectory would look different if Gilbert’s reputation for being a producer’s darling and box office success didn’t follow him around. 

“These things take time,” Anne tells him gently. “What that director did to you was shitty, but there will be more opportunities in the future. You’ve got a whole career ahead of you.” 

He takes a moment to consider the sentiment. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know and that Bash hasn’t already said, but it’s somehow more comforting coming from Anne. She has always had an ability to manifest the impossible, to spin stories out of nothing, and to make Gilbert believe her every word. 

She radiates warmth in waves, lulling him out of his pity hole momentarily. Her physical presence is like a balm and one that he won’t ever take for granted. 

Gilbert can’t get the words out to thank her past his throat, but she nods as if she heard them anyway. 

“You know what?” Anne amends, sensing his need to move past the issue. “I know what I want to do today.” 

She swings around the island and takes grasp of his hand, a ball of chaotic energy like a siren leading him to the water. “And that is?” 

“Target. Let’s go to Target.”

“Why?”

“I want to see what all the fuss is about and do dumb, domestic things with you.” 

Gilbert can’t argue with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I know about Los Angeles: 0. But I did spend an unhealthy amount of time on Zillow looking at houses to model Chez Blythe after. 
> 
> This really isn’t a slow-burn, I’m just taking my canon-compliant Yearning tag seriously.
> 
> >:)
> 
> P.S. I've never read Wuthering Heights and I'm sorry to all my Hareton stans out there. I'm sure you exist.


	6. six

After breakfast, Anne and Gilbert pile into his midsize SUV and head over to the Target in Glendale. It’s less crowded than a store in the city would be and provides a more authentic “nothing else to do, might as well fuck around for an hour or two” experience that is quintessential to Target’s business model. Gilbert puts on the classic celebrity going incognito outfit, complete with baseball hat and Ray Bans, and sticks his key in the ignition. 

Yesterday’s rain pushes out the last bout of bad weather in LA and leaves in its wake a sunny, smogless day. Anne practically hangs out the passenger window, head cradled in her arms, and watching wistfully as the cityscape rolls by in a blur of lush greens and desert browns. She points out every palm tree they pass along the way, reflexive like passing by horses in the countryside. 

They ride mostly in silence while Anne hums along to the radio, not even acting at crooning badly but just legitimately tone-deaf. She only pauses to ask him his experiences with whatever artist is currently playing, curious if they are nice in real life or if they pronounce it care-ah-mell vs. car-mel (“When would this have ever come up?” “I don’t presume to know what celebrities such as yourself discuss amongst each other.”) 

Her hair is swept up and out of her face, pinned back with a series of blue and green barrettes. They keep everything in place save for the wispy strands of Anne’s bangs that gleam fiery red when they catch the light a certain way. Anne is still growing them out after a disastrous haircut she allowed Tillie to give her last semester, the incident well-documented in a three page letter to Gilbert, two of which she spends lamenting her appearance. 

“I like the bangs,” he says casually, one eye on the road and the other on Anne’s profile.

“Hm?” she turns to look at him, momentarily distracted from taking pictures of an In-And-Out to send Diana. 

“When you told me Tillie might as well have maimed you in your letter, I thought you were being a touch dramatic. But seeing them in person, I _know_ you were being dramatic.”

Anne scoffs, genuinely offended at the denunciation. “Excuse me, Gilbert? This is the result of three months’ worth of steady keratin and prayer. When I wrote you that letter, I truly looked like a generic 14th century friar.” 

“I’m sure you pulled it off,” he replies, not even being facetious. He’s also sure that if not for the fact that he is driving, Anne would have punched him in the shoulder. 

Gilbert turns right into the parking lot of the Target on Galleria. It is early enough in the morning that the only shoppers around are soccer moms and seniors, so he and Anne have a good two hour window before the lunch rush hits and the chances of being recognized double exponentially. He grabs a cart on the way in, even though Anne insists she’s only there to window shop.

“Nobody just window shops at Target,” he points out, pulling his cap down further over his head. “Least of all, you.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You find beauty in all things, Anne. And then you’ll attach some deep, personal meaning to a turkey baster and insist that it has to come home with you in the unlikely event that you’d ever need a turkey baster, and then cart will be full, and I will be the one who has to carry all of your bags from the car and up the stairs.”

Anne doesn’t dispute this, but makes a beeline to the dollar zone located strategically by the entrance. She starts piling cheap stationary into the cart when Gilbert pulls up behind her. “I would carry _some_ bags,” is her sophisticated response. “At least half of them. Probably more.” She flexes her biceps for good measure, as if daring Gilbert to arm wrestle her in the middle of the paper craft supplies.

They spend the next hour and a half working their way up and down the aisles, even going through the pet section although Gilbert’s scared she’ll get ideas. He loses her frequently throughout the excursion as Anne runs off without a warning or gets side-tracked and left behind. Gilbert actually likes the way she beams at him when they reunite shortly afterwards and finds himself losing her on purpose, halfway through, if only to see that smile.

Anne practices remarkable self-restraint by putting down one out of every ten items she picks up and doesn’t even need that much cajoling to walk away from a mountain bike lofted prettily on the display wall. 

She jokes that it doesn’t matter because she’ll be writing everything up as a business expense anyway; Gilbert knows that she will fight him at checkout if he so much as lifts a finger.

Briefly, he wonders if her pride will make things difficult the entire summer, or if she will eventually accept that Gilbert will be the one who pays for everything in the end. If not in the moment, then through bank deposits later on. Anne probably already suspects that he won’t be charging her rent, discounted or otherwise (and wasn’t planning to in the first place) because he makes too much money as it is. More than likely, whatever she tries to pay him will end up being given to charity along with his usual quarterly contributions.

Gilbert doesn’t know how to convey that he doesn’t mind footing the bill while also respecting Anne’s wishes and without undermining her independence. She isn’t contributing less to the relationship because his astronomical earnings skew whatever idealized 50/50 split she holds to be the standard. He also can’t put a price on the emotional labor she performs or the warmth Anne brings. Her intrinsic value in his life is worth every paycheck and investment Gilbert makes from now until forever. 

He tells her as much over lunch after Gilbert slides the cashier his credit card before Anne could stop him. She gives him the stink eye from the store to the car and during the entire ride over to Applebees, the first stop on his tour of borderline shitty American staples he wants Anne to try. They sit facing each other in a booth by the window, eye to eye and splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks between them. She looks like she wants to argue, but Gilbert needs to say one last thing on the matter before he puts it to rest.

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m showing off or that you’re lesser than because I pay for things. Or, God forbid, that you’re obligated to do anything you don’t want to because you think it’s only fair. To be perfectly honest, I make more money than I know what to do with so please just let me spend it on you without it being a huge deal because _it isn’t_.” 

Anne softens her glare, a victory in and of itself. It might have something to do with the puppy dog eyes he unleashes or the definite pout he’s sporting as well. But Gilbert knows it’s working when she audibly sighs and deflates, her combative body language taking on a more relaxed posture. 

She polishes off the rest of the appetizer before she concedes. “Okay, fine. But you better keep that same energy when I ask for a football franchise tomorrow.” 

“For you, Anne-girl? Anything.” He puts too much meaning behind the words. The sentimentality of the statement practically oozes, leaking all over like an ink stain in water. 

Anne must sense it too, because she blushes and goes quiet.

They are the only ones in the restaurant besides the wait staff, half of whom are wiping down silverware by the bar and debating amongst themselves whether he is actually Gilbert Blythe or just a close approximation. Anne drums her fingers along to the beat of a generic, 80s rock song while Gilbert shoots the rest of his root beer back in one long, greedy gulp. 

Thankfully, he is spared from prolonged embarrassment when their waiter comes out with entrees. The burger in front of him brings back memories of celebration dinners spent with Bash, balling out at chain restaurants because they couldn’t afford anything more extravagant. The night his coffee commercial aired during Superbowl LI, Bash took him out to Outback Steakhouse and ordered _two_ blooming onions for the table.

Gilbert lands his first real acting gig almost immediately afterwards, a recurring cameo on a three-episode arc of _Blood Money_ that launched his career and turned him into a series regular. Still, he holds fond memories of linoleum floors and laminate booth seats, Denny’s $5.99 deals after late-night shoots, and tracking diner grease through his studio in Echo Park. 

Anne waves a hand in his face to grab his attention. “Gilbert, your phone is ringing.”

“What?” He detaches slowly from his reverie. 

Anne leans in closer to peer at his screen, the scent of her banana shampoo suddenly present and distracting. “Who is ‘Do Not Answer’?” 

Heat creeps up the back of Gilbert’s neck, raising his body temperature by at least three degrees. “A friend from the past,” he answers vaguely, the tips of his ears turning bright, cherry red. He doesn’t remember when he changed their name in his phone or the last time they even spoke. “We hung out a lot, when I first got into acting. But we’ve drifted apart since then.” 

He watches as his phone switches from Incoming to (1) Missed Call. 

The full weight of Anne’s attention feels too close to an interrogation. “Does this friend have a name? Besides ‘Do Not Answer’?” She must suspect that it's a girl, the way her eyes narrow slightly. 

His response comes out almost as a murmur. “. . . Rosslyn.”

The wary look in Anne’s eyes is replaced with pure disbelief. She slaps both palms down on the table, disturbing their food as she lifts herself up in excitement. The clatter of the plates when her thighs bump the table echoes noisily throughout Applebees. “As in Arnold Rosslyn?” she stage-whispers. “Of _Malibu_ fame? You two were _friends_?”

“We weren’t close,” Gilbert feels the need to defend himself. Arnold Rosslyn evokes in the public consciousness the feeling of early 2000s chaos: beautiful and destructive, like a car crash waiting to happen. He is always in the tabloids for some hairbrained stunt or another. Back when they met, Gilbert was young and impressionable and equally as desperate to impress upon others. Rosslyn scooped him up as easily as sand. “But yeah, we were friends.” 

“Did you have a falling out or something?”

He runs a hand through his curls, especially reluctant to divulge this part of his past. “At our cores, we are very different people. Rosslyn has always lived life in the fast lane, whereas I just kind of fell into it for a time. I tried to fit in with his group of friends: went to all the parties, consumed a lot of alcohol” . . . hesitantly . . . “d-dated a lot of girls. Bash refers to it as my Networking Period, which I guess it kind of was. A lot of doors opened up, being connected to the upper echelon of Hollywood elites. But in the end, I just couldn’t hang. Nothing about that lifestyle was suited for me.” 

“You didn’t mention any of this in your letters,” Anne points out, almost sad that he would keep this from her when there are so few secrets between them as it is. There were times when Gilbert would come close to spilling the beans; long nights spent staring at the paper in front of him, contemplative, before he crumpled up the words and shot them in the waste bin across the room. Heavy editing was necessary when recounting the events of his week; outright omissions when Rosslyn took him on a bender. 

“I didn’t like myself very much, back then. And I definitely didn’t want to show that side of myself to you, of all people.” 

It comes off like an accusation, which maybe it is. “Me? What about me?” she asks.

_Besides the fact that I’m in love with you?_ “You’re so incredibly self-assured, Anne. You know who you are and what you stand for. I was a husk of a person, just waiting for Hollywood to blow a personality into me while actively disliking the one Rosslyn carved out. There wasn’t a huge fight or even heart to heart between us. I just kind of . . . drifted, and then got busy enough to justify it.” 

“But he still tries to keep in touch?” 

“He was a good friend, most of the time. Just a bit unhinged and misunderstood.” 

Anne almost snorts out the last sip of her water. “Isn’t that what they say about all troubled stars?” 

As if summoned, Gilbert’s phone lights up with a series of texts from the most troubled star of them all.

**_Do Not Answer: Party at mine tonight to celebrate 25 revolutions around the sun. 10 PM, open bar and more importantly, open baggies._ **

**_Do Not Answer: I would say it’s going to be low-key, but it probably won’t be lol._ **

**_Do Not Answer: Bring your new girl, if you want. Promise we won’t bite (although I can’t speak for Winnie!)._ **

“Party?” Anne echoes as Gilbert is softly reading through the texts.

He considers going, momentarily. For the sake of legitimacy, it would make more sense for Gilbert to start introducing Anne to his friends rather than announcing their relationship out of the blue. At the very least, to set a precedence of dating and establish their respective alibis. Rosslyn’s party is the perfect place, with everyone gathered, to kill multiple birds with one stone. 

“Rosslyn is throwing a birthday party and he wants us to go.”

“Us?”

“You’ve been expressly invited.” He tries to keep the grimace from his voice. Anne’s enthusiasm seems to be having the opposite effect on Gilbert, who suddenly realizes that he would rather keep her to himself for just a little while longer. Going to Rosslyn’s party would be a full leap into the deep end and Gilbert knows they are wholly unprepared. 

“I love birthday parties!” is Anne’s earnest response. Her face lights up and he can see the cogs in her head turning, already picturing how the night will play out. “Will there be a theme?” 

“The same theme it’s been the last four years: hard drugs and alcohol poisoning.” 

She wrinkles her nose cutely. “How do you even dress for that? All black, I’m assuming.” 

The realistic response is the less you wear and the more expensive it is, the better. But the image of Anne in tight, skimpy clothing is totally incongruent to the Anne he knows and loves (even if his hormone-addled brain subconsciously files the thought away for later, to be revisited in his dreams). “You can wear whatever is comfortable. These parties draw all sorts of crowds, so it’s almost impossible to stick out if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“I think I’d stick out just by virtue of going with _you._ ”

“We don’t have to go,” Gilbert offers, quietly. “Not if you’re not ready.” 

Because Gilbert definitely isn’t.

Anne takes a moment to consider, turning the proposal over and over in her head. He likes watching the way her lips twist from side to side when she’s thinking, pink and puckered and kissable to a fault. She eventually turns the question back on him. “Are you ready, Gil? To pretend, for a whole night and to a houseful of your friends, that we’re dating and in love?” 

He has to laugh at the irony of it all, in singular possession of the knowledge that Gilbert’s spent the last decade of his life hoping to do just that. “I’ve made a career out of pretending” is what he ends up saying, instead. 

Anne looks like she wants to say more, the way she lifts her chin and steels herself suddenly. He can practically see the words bubbling on the tip of her tongue, but for whatever reason she bites them back.

“Well I haven’t, so let’s get our stories straight.” 

They had already agreed, during their conversation with Bash and Mary, that their relationship was on a Need to Know basis. So obviously, Anne immediately turned around and told Diana. But the smaller details, their corroborating accounts, still need to be drafted.

“Okay, I’ll go first.” 

“When did we start dating?” Anne asks, posing the question like it’s something he should already know by heart.

The lie comes easy, because part of it is true. “Junior year of high school, but I’ve been in love with you for longer.”

“Happy five year anniversary,” she grins, dimples out in full force.

They clink empty glasses in mock celebration before the onus turns to him. Gilbert chooses his question carefully, finally putting to rest the matter of what it would have taken in high school for Anne to say yes. “What was our first date?”

“You took me to Charlottetown to see _Eurydice_ , we had ice cream in the park afterwards, and spent hours talking in your car.” 

“Did I kiss you that night?”

“No, but you wanted to,” Anne sighs, romantical look in her eyes as if it actually happened and wasn't a figment of their collective imagination. “I could tell and it made you nervous so you chickened out in the end. Our actual first kiss happened during our fourth date to the zoo because I got impatient and kissed you first.” 

“That definitely checks out," he laughs, almost hurt by the accuracy of it all.

It becomes a game, after that, with each answer growing more elaborate than the last. They go back and forth with imagined scenarios of their first moments together: first fight (over the spelling of ingenious), first weekend away (a camping trip outside of Carmody where Anne packs nothing but tomato sandwiches and a flashlight), or the first person to say I love you (Gilbert, for obvious reasons). Together, they create a whole treasure trove of memories they’ve never made and moments that will never come to pass. All the while, Anne describes their relationship in such careful detail, it almost feels like a fully-formed reality; a parallel universe where Gilbert’s wildest dreams come true.

Anne speaks like polished stones, like fantasies picked up and perused and weathered down throughout the years instead of the jagged edges he comes to associate with her raw imagination. He wonders if she thinks about him fondly, about what could have been if she had said yes the first and last time Gilbert asked. 

Although thinking back, Gilbert’s not sure if he even asked anything in the first place. Maybe this entire situation is the culmination of misfires going back farther than his interview with Candace? Has he been an idiot for that long?

But regardless, it’s too late. The timing has passed and honestly, Gilbert’s not sure how they can last past the summer when Anne goes back to Canada and Gilbert resumes jet setting off to the farthest corners of the universe. It was one thing, getting by with only letters. But now Gilbert knows what it is to occupy space together, to share meals and silence and laughter, and to look forward to mundane, domestic tasks because he’s doing them with Anne. It’s impossible to go back in the same vein that he can’t imagine them moving forward.

He loves her fiercely, but it also isn’t enough. Fate has other machinations that cannot be overcome through feelings alone. 

They go a couple more rounds when it’s Gilbert’s turn again.

“Do we have pet names for each other?” he asks, off the cuff. They’ve exhausted so much of their brain power, squeezing out every last detail of their imagined relationship, that he’s surprised he still has questions.

Anne takes longer to answer this one, fiddling with the corner of a sugar packet before it rips and spills out miniature crystal fragments. She presses a finger onto the table, lifting it up to lick the sugar from the tip. The act is done innocuously but is enough to short-circuit his brain.

“No, but you call me Anne-girl sometimes. Carrots, for the times when you love me uncontrollably.” 

She lobs it out there, nonchalantly. The way Gilbert responds is anything but.

He’s suddenly tired of tip-toeing around the elephant in the room. 

“If that was the case, then I would never call you by anything other than Carrots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not at me writing another chapter where nothing much happens and they talk about all the things except for the one thing that really matters. I am the epitome of fast-paced action. Nothing but plot points happening here, folks.


	7. seven

_“If that was the case, then I would never call you by anything other than Carrots.”_

Gilbert’s gone and done it again; he’s gone and said a string of words out loud that he can never take back, watching as it floats around in the ether, idle and mocking, before settling heavily between him and Anne.

If the redhead has clocked the levity of his confession, she does a great job of hiding it; simply rolls her eyes and tells Gilbert to “leave the theatrics for when we actually have an audience, okay?”

Anne noisily clears her throat, citing allergies as the reason her voice sounds so high and paper-thin. In Gilbert’s devastation, he doesn’t notice the color in her cheeks, a deeper stain than usual and which Anne inexpertly attempts to hide behind the table napkin she uses to wipe the sauce from her mouth. Nevermind that she is eating dry-rub chicken tenders and that Anne is not normally so messy an eater as to have gotten residue almost halfway up her face. 

But Gilbert is understandably preoccupied with another failed confession, shot down in flames before it had the chance to really fly. His heart clenches terribly at the dismissal, all that sincerity gone to waste, but his mind remains surprisingly calm (or blank, depending on how you look at it). Hazily, Gilbert wonders if he might actually have to spell out his feelings for Anne one of these days, or if it’ll eventually click at a time when they’re not having lunch in the middle of an Applebees. Relatively speaking though, what is the appropriate setting in which to bear your heart to the sole woman who has been in possession of it since childhood? 

He warily submits to tabling this discussion for later. Perhaps during the reading of his last will and testament? Gilbert has suffered enough embarrassment to last a lifetime.

“I actually have a couple errands to run,” he says mock-casually, attempting to put some space between him and Anne for a while. In reality, he only has a singular errand to run and it is the least consequential thing in the entire world; Gilbert literally has to text his assistant to take back the task, citing a bullshit excuse about how he’s suddenly missed going to the dry cleaners all of a sudden. “Do you want me to drop you off back home?”

Anne shakes her head and glances briefly at her phone. “Cole has been bugging me to hang out today. I’ll just tell him to meet me somewhere in the neighborhood so I can walk and stretch my legs for a bit.” She proceeds to shoot off a couple of texts, chipped green thumbnails flying quickly across the keyboard. “Are we still on for dinner before the party?” 

He’s not sure how long it will take to lick his wounds, but Gilbert has been craving Indian food since before he left a month ago. It’s also not Anne’s fault she doesn’t feel the same way; this is something Gilbert has to deal with on his own, without letting it affect their friendship like he promised. “Yeah, for sure. I should be done with everything before 7 so I can either meet you back at home or pick you up where you’re at.” 

“Cole is being incredibly cryptic about our plans, but he can probably drop me off at home around then.” 

Gilbert shrugs back on his jean jacket and baseball cap in preparation to leave. Anne offers him a parting smile which brings out the dimples in her cheeks. It is almost instinctual to lean down and brush his lips against her forehead, skin to skin, but Gilbert refrains. He diverts at the last second, grabbing the checkbook instead. Anne looks up at him breathlessly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” her voice returns to that higher octave, allergies flaring up again. She appears almost flustered. “I’ll see you later.” 

-

Gilbert spends the next couple hours driving aimlessly around LA, weaving in and around side streets to avoid sitting in traffic and his thoughts. He drives up and down the PCH, from Long Beach to Ventura and back again, before he finds himself idling in the parking garage of Bash’s high-rise office space. He doesn’t remember picking up his dry cleaning or anything in between, but there are two pressed suits hanging staunchly in the backseat. 

“What are you doing here?” his manager asks when Gilbert lets himself into the room. Bash is buried beneath stacks of paperwork and a two-monitor setup, feet kicked up on the desk while still shaking the remnants of sleep from his eyes. Bash’s reading glasses sit suspended on the bridge of his nose, indicating that Gilbert has apparently walked in on an afternoon nap.

“I’m bored,” he says in lieu of an explanation. Gilbert grabs an apple from the fruit bowl by the door, biting into it as he spreads horizontal on the couch meant for business meetings only. Gilbert is Bash’s most lucrative business, after all. 

“I figured when I gave you the week off, you’d be holed up in your house playing catch-up with Anne.” 

Which was definitely the plan, before Gilbert opened his big, dumb mouth again. He settles for telling a partial truth instead. “She’s meeting up with a friend,” he says through a mouthful of fruit.

“Do you not have friends of your own?” 

“Obviously not, seeing as how I’m hanging out with you.” 

This is past a sore point for Gilbert, having become resigned to this aspect of his reality. He felt like the center of the world growing up in such a small town like Avonlea, but Hollywood is a different beast that doesn’t share the same childhood memories of running recklessly through meadows together or wading in creeks trying to catch tomorrow’s supper. There are few people he has met in his time here that Gilbert would voluntarily call a friend and fewer still he would hang out with given his extremely limited free time. 

“You’re moping, not bored,” Bash catches on quickly. He shuffles around a couple stacks of paper to get a better view of Gilbert. “Did something happen with Anne?” 

“No . . . and yes.” 

“Well that explains everything.”

Gilbert rolls his eyes, annoyed at a number of different things: Bash’s sass, the predicament he’s in, and maybe even the world at large. This summer feels like a ticking time bomb on their relationship; like whatever he and Anne come out as in the end will be written in perpetuity. There is a restlessness Gilbert feels in the depths of his marrow. “No, nothing’s happened. But I’m starting to think that maybe _the lack_ of something is a problem.” 

Bash doesn’t deign to give a response to Gilbert’s equally cryptic admission. 

Must he spell it out for everyone today? 

“I told Anne how I felt about her over lunch.” 

This seems to get Bash’s attention. He lifts his legs off the desk and plants them firmly on the floor, leaning forward with elbows on his thighs. “And?”

“And she said no.” Which isn’t technically true, but true enough to hurt. The words lay heavily on his conscience. “Basically.” 

“And did you expect her to say yes? After so much time has passed?” 

Gilbert stares up at the ceiling, too vulnerable to meet the sympathy in Bash’s gaze. He feels like a therapy patient, wondering when the Rorschach test would be administered. It doesn’t help that Bash swings around to sit in the chair at the end of the table, like a proper psychiatrist would. “My feelings for Anne haven’t changed. If anything, they’ve only grown stronger.” 

“But _you’ve_ certainly changed. You’re not the same kid I picked up when you were 18, and Anne hasn’t been privy to your transformation over the years.”

“But our letters -” 

“Letters can only do so much. Part of who you are is how the world reacts around you, which is hard to gauge when you wear so many different faces; Gilbert of Avonlea, Gilbert the celebrity, and the Gilbert of her letters. She probably needs some time to reconcile all of your different identities before coming to a conclusion.” 

“But at the end of the day though, aren’t they all still _me_? And if she doesn’t love me by now, is there any hope she’ll ever love me in the future?” He feels hot tears coming on, suddenly feeling sorry for himself despite having made up his mind to not hold any expectations for the summer. It was already so hard winning over Anne’s friendship, Gilbert’s probably pushing the envelope by asking for more. 

“Not necessarily,” Bash says in an attempt at reassurance. “Look at me and Mary, for example.”

“Apples to oranges. You and Mary got married within six months of knowing each other.”

“Proving that length of time is not an indicator for love. We didn’t fall for each other based on some pre-calculated window of time. _Life_ is your window of time. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think Anne is completely without feelings for you either.” 

“What makes you say that?” Gilbert sounds hopeful that what Bash is about to say will unlock the key to the universe. 

It’s treated more like an opportunity to further tease his little brother. “No girl is going to take the time out of her day to write letters to a moke like you if she isn’t already halfway in love. That’s simple science, Blythe.” 

“And your source?”

Bash is entirely self-assured. “The knowledge in my brain, of course.” 

He can only scoff in response, sitting up because it’s now a quarter to seven and Anne is probably waiting for him at home. “Well can you tap into that vast knowledge of yours and tell me what’s it going to take to make up the other half?”

“Just do what I did: make a drunken confession and then immediately pop the question.” 

“Because my sober confessions work out so well.” 

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it!” Bash yells at Gilbert’s retreating back. The sound echoes down the hallway towards the lift where Gilbert shakes his head and presses the down button to the parking garage. Absolutely ridiculous.

But Gilbert can’t say he doesn’t consider it though.

-

He expects to feel some lingering sense of awkwardness over dinner, but Anne mitigates that as she always does with running commentary on her adventures in Santa Monica. They walk side by side from Gilbert’s neighborhood to the restaurant, matching pace as he listens to Anne describe to him all the sights she’d seen and the lives she’d ascribed to passing tourists while people-watching on the pier. Gilbert politely asks after Cole, to which Anne explains that he’d actually been invited to the party that night as well. Or someone in his friend group had, at least. She’s not too sure about the politics of Hollywood social circles.

“In any case,” Anne resolves, “I promised him a dance!” 

They round the corner to Art Masala, a little hole in the wall that Gilbert is especially fond of, if only because the owner treats everyone who comes in like an extended member of her family. It’s situated on the second floor of a three story walk-up, sandwiched in between a nail salon and fortune teller business, the latter of which Anne eyes with more than subtle interest.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a front for something,” Gilbert admits, having not seen a singular customer going up or down the third flight of stairs in his long history of patronage. Real estate in Silver Lake cannot be cheap, so he's not sure how else they managed to stay in business. 

The overhead bells jingle to alert their presence. Preeti emerges from a curtain of beads in the back, her already large smile growing larger when she recognizes Gilbert. 

“ _Beta_ ,” she calls, eyes narrowing in accusation, “why have you lost weight? Have you been eating? Are they not feeding you at your events?” She places her hands on her hips, standing at a proud 5’2 but infinitely larger than her small stature would suggest. Preeti reminds him of rich earth and clay ovens, stout and warm as she wraps her arms around him in a hug.

“Nothing tastes as good as your food,” he tells her frivolously, returning the embrace. 

Preeti whacks the back of his head. “No more of that sweet talk from you, Gilbert. That kind of thing should be reserved for your beautiful girlfriend only.” She casts an expectant look in Anne’s direction. 

“Hi, I’m Anne,” she is quick to say. Anne takes in as much of the restaurant owner as possible before the redhead is similarly pulled into a back-breaking hug. Preeti has no reservations when it comes to personal space.

“My name is Preeti, dear one. And I’m only assuming you’re Gilbert’s girlfriend—he’s never brought anyone over to meet me before.”

Anne blushes, a pretty shade of pink. She doesn’t dare look at him when she responds, “Yes, I’m Gilbert’s girlfriend.” 

The words curl sweetly inside his chest. Gilbert wishes he could say that they have no effect on him and that Gilbert is similarly not invested in this fake dating scheme in the least bit. But in reality, that one sentence from Anne has the ability to send butterflies down his throat, chews and flutters around in his esophagus before exploding like supernovae against his gut. Gilbert could die happily if those were the last words he’d ever heard. 

“Come! Come in and sit! We’ve just opened up for dinner.”

Preeti leads them to a table set for two, Gilbert’s usual seat by a window overlooking the busy side street below. Dinner flies by in a flurry of food and conversation. Art Masala survives off of take-out and delivery orders alone, so Gilbert is almost always assured quality food and maximum privacy whenever he makes the trek. Preeti pops in and out of the kitchen to chat, each time bringing with her another side dish or snack and carefully makes sure to heap seconds and thirds onto their plate if she notices any dent (sizable or imagined). 

By the time they are finished, it is already half ten. 

“Preeti, why didn’t you kick us out?” Anne asks, moving to help clean off the table. They hadn’t noticed Preeti locking the door and switching off the OPEN sign in the window earlier on.

“Nonsense,” the woman says, placing a gentle hand on Anne’s shoulder. It is both a comforting gesture and a move to pin her down. Preeti won’t put Anne to work just yet; not on the first visit, at least. “You two were having a good date and I could always use the company when closing down for the night.” She packs away the used cutlery and plates with practiced ease, motioning for Gilbert to spray down and wipe the tables as he has done in the past when his dinners ran late. 

Anne excuses herself to use the bathroom, which Preeti takes as an opportunity to give Gilbert the third degree.

“How did you meet this girl, _beta_?” she asks while balancing the ledger. Her eyes are looking down at the account book while a hidden third eye somehow bores into his soul. “And why didn’t you bring her around earlier?” 

Gilbert buzzes back and forth, putting up chairs on top of tables so he can get to sweeping. “We grew up together, in Avonlea. But she’s here in LA for a summer internship.” 

Preeti hums in approval, partial to industrious women like herself. Good, because Gilbert is trying to subtly ingratiate Anne to a woman who has become something of a mother figure in his life. “An internship doing what?” she asks.

“I’m not exactly sure. It’s with Jack and Jumper Publishing, but it might just be a lot of behind the scenes work to broaden her horizons. Administrative tasks and the like. Ultimately though, Anne wants to be a writer.” 

“That makes sense. She looks at you with such poetry in her eyes.”

“Really?” Gilbert asks, the familiar feeling of butterflies returning. It’s like a sort of cosmic whiplash, being turned down by Anne while simultaneously getting reassurance about her alleged feelings for him. He doesn’t know who to believe (or rather, he knows but doesn’t want to. Especially when his own subconscious screams that Anne reciprocates, even if reality never quite catches up to that perception. Surely, he isn’t self-sabotaging enough to hang on without even the suggestion of hope?) But Gilbert is an idiot, after all. 

Preeti presses the broom into his hand and pats his back reassuringly. “I never lie, _beta_. And I know everything. Never forget that.” 

“Is that why upstairs never gets any customers? Because you’re poaching them all away?” 

“Very funny, dear one. You’ve missed your calling in stand-up comedy. But mark my words, she’ll write a _tour de force_ for you one day.”

-

The party is in full swing by the time Anne and Gilbert arrive. Rosslyn lives in a gated community in Van Nuys, a twenty bedroom enclave he inherited from his parents. The properties on either side of him have been vacated and put up for sale, almost entirely due to the rotating door of parties, people, and police that are called onto the premises regularly.

Lines of luxury cars are parked in neat order out front, enough to require Rosslyn’s personal assistant to assume temporary valet duty for the night. Gilbert is thankful he took a taxi over to spare the poor girl the extra work and the later grief she will get having to discern which entitled celebrity/entourage was sober enough to drive home and which ones she will have to gamble her livelihood by holding their car keys hostage. In the name of public safety, of course. 

“What should I be expecting?” Anne asks as they make their way up the driveway. In just his narrow field of vision alone, Gilbert can make out a couple blacked out on the lawn, one man vlogging himself while he empties the contents of his stomach into a hedge, and the remnants of a petting zoo; a singular llama either forgotten in haste or temporarily left behind.

“Is the unexpected too cliche of an answer?”

Anne laughs as they enter into the fray. “Not if it’s accurate.” Which it definitely is.

At first glance, the house is a scene of organized chaos, roughly divided into subsections depending on the vibe you’re trying to go for. The main part of the first floor is where the party is most active, a DJ booth set up in the back corner while a backlit dance floor pulsates along with beat. It isn’t totally reminiscent of a college rager with TP strewn across the floor and half-naked bodies trying to get off in the corner, but it comes pretty close. The peripheral rooms are used to drink merrily and mingle, the veranda set aside for smoking blunts, while the upper floors serve as spaces of refuge and/or hook-ups spots for quickies and the occasional double-feature. Rosslyn is probably out back in the place where everyone wants to be: poolside, with the It Crowd, holding court and snorting lines between cannonballs. Here, he is king of the world, or the tiny corner of it inhabited by American social elites. 

Gilbert and Anne spend the better part of an hour working their way from room to room, mostly just observing while Gilbert divulges anecdotes about the few people he recognizes or knows through less than three degrees of separation. Anne eventually bullies him into a game where they pick a stranger from the crowd and the other has to figure out who it is using five questions or less. Unsurprisingly, Gilbert is bad at it and blames his tragical fault of never asking the questions that matter.

_“Does your person look like they know the seventh digit of pi?”_

_“_ _Are they physically capable of reaching their toes?”_

_“Who would this person fuck/marry/kill between Stephen Hawking, Dolly Parton, and that one boy from Stranger Things?”_

It is a fun back and forth that eventually turns into six straight losses for Gilbert. Anne reluctantly shows him mercy and moves on to celebrity look-alikes.

“This game isn’t as fun when they’re the actual celebrities people look like.” Anne pouts and takes a sip of her beer, reflexively wrinkling her nose as it has grown tepid and warm in her hands. There’s still liquid at the neck, seeing as how Gilbert was the only one forced to drink due to her total annihilation. 

The alcohol has gone only slightly to his head, enough to relax his body but not enough to make him reach out to Anne in the way he’s wanted to all evening. He pictures her slotted between his arms, back to chest like they were in the airport, but this time Gilbert buries his face into the crook of her neck. Forced approximation is required to hear each other over the din of the party, but nothing save for skin to skin contact would be enough to satisfy Gilbert’s baser instincts. Her body heat mingles with the general warmth of May in LA.

Something in the way he looks at her must tip Anne off to his more primal thoughts. “I’m going to get myself another beer,” she says in an attempt to extract herself from his gaze. 

Gilbert suspects that his pupils must be blown. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

Anne tells him no, but promises to be right back in a jiffy.

He watches her disappear slowly into the next room, leaving Gilbert vulnerable and alone and sipping on a questionable combination of alcohol in a red solo cup, one of the few items in every household that transcends socioeconomic lines. He hangs off to the side, practically hugging the wall, but holds steady conversation with the handful of acquaintances that approach him in her absence. Some are total blasts from the past, looking to reminiscence on memories of shared debauchery. But most of them are people Gilbert’s come across in his short line of work, kindred spirits he hasn’t had the time to nurse into long-lasting friendships. They play catch-up and swap stories for a while; a few even inquire good-naturedly after Anne.

It is jarring every time, to speak about her with such openness. But while their relationship is pretend, Gilbert can’t fake the way his eyes gleam and the way he smiles so hard it practically bisects his face. He can also only imagine how gone he looks, a little tipsy off alcohol and wholly drunk on love. It is like having an out of body experience, unable to contain his happiness in a single corporeal vessel, and for a stretch between the second and seventh person who asks, Gilbert almost believes that their relationship is real.

_“Anne is my girlfriend, from back home in Canada.”_

“ _She’s moved in with me for the summer while she’s pursuing an internship in LA.”_

_“We got together in high school and have been disgustingly in love ever since.”_

Every half-lie he tells practically tickles him pink.

Reality hits though when Winnie enters the room, making an entrance without having to make an entrance. All eyes slide automatically to her figure slinking gracefully through the crowd, naturally parting to accommodate her straight trajectory towards Gilbert. A sly smirk lifts the corner of Winnie’s painted lips, rose color matching the pink of her designer playsuit. 

She doesn’t say anything to him, merely leads him up the stairs and into the first unoccupied room they see. Gilbert, like an idiot, follows along without protest, not so much considering the optics as he is trying to work past the alcohol and gather his wits about him. He cannot be caught off-guard with someone like Winnifred Rose.

The room she guides him in is a bedroom of some kind, already worn-in judging by the rumpled state of the bedsheets. The door clicks shut behind them, ominously.

“So what’s the scoop?” Winnie asks, cutting straight to the point. She pulls her hair up out of her face, tying it back in a bun like she does right before a workout. Because interrogating ex-lovers is Winnie’s favorite contact sport. “Who’s the girl?”

Gilbert gives her a mock two-finger salute, an inside joke he hopes will soften her approach. “Hello to you, too.” 

“Ew.” No such luck. “You know I hate shallow pleasantries.” 

He picks the corner of the bed that is the least visually soaked in undisclosed bodily fluids to sit down on. “Are you referring to basic human manners?” 

“Is this deflection some kind of admission of guilt?”

“Tsk tsk. Rosslyn promised you wouldn’t bite.”

“Just nipping,” Winnie winks, backing down momentarily. Her tone is overtly playful, but she is fully circling him like a cat honing in on its prey. 

In preparation for the onslaught, Gilbert looks straight ahead at the wall, knowing better than to play into her game or show any signs of weakness. Winnie has a way of discerning people’s secrets through a singular chink in the armor, an unguarded microexpression or two, as a byproduct of childhood acting and dissecting character motivations for a living.

“I figured you had a girl,” she tries to ease him in. The room feels hotter all of a sudden and Gilbert moves to unbutton the first three notches of his dress shirt. “You were distracted enough in the beginning, when I was practically throwing myself at your feet. But a five year relationship in the middle of our hook-ups? Now that doesn't sound like you.” 

Gilbert shrugs, playing at nonchalant. Internally though, he is both screaming and drunk. “We were on a break.” 

“Was I your rebound then?” 

You’ve never been anybody’s rebound,” he’s quick to answer. “And least of all, mine.” 

He's long-learned that flattery will get him far with Winnie Rose. That lesson still holds true, judging by the way she grins at him with her full set of teeth. “Damn straight.” She pushes two fingers into the blade of his shoulder, applying enough pressure to knock him backwards on the bed. “And yet, I still don’t believe you. Something’s fishy about this relationship of yours, Gilbert Blythe.” 

He transfers the bulk of his weight onto his elbows, upper body propped against the length of his forearms. Winnie looms above him, both haughty and considering. Her arms are folded neatly across her chest as she appraises Gilbert through the slits of her eyes. 

It will be harder to fool Winnie, who is arguably his closest friend in the industry besides Bash and Mary. Gilbert has spent far too many hours in her company, both as co-stars in multiple movie franchises and as sort-of lovers who fooled around off-set, to think that Winnie is the type of girl to let anything slide. She and Anne are incredibly similar in that regard, but the former more a wrecking ball than the delicate touch of diplomacy. Winnie rarely extends sympathy in her pursuit of the truth.

“Can’t you just take my word for it?” Gilbert asks, knowing even as he says it that it is a lost cause. 

She arches an eyebrow, articulate even in her facial expressions. “Shouldn’t you know better by now?”

Gilbert relents, treading neutral territory for now. “Her name is Anne. We grew up together in Avonlea.” It's the same spiel he's given to a handful of other people tonight. 

She must sense he’s not playing hardball. “Were you high school sweethearts? What exactly caused the break-up?”

“What causes all break ups at that age?” Gilbert shrugs again. “College and distance, I guess.” 

“And how soon after our break-up did you get back together with Anne?” 

“Last January? I guess. After the holidays, at least.” 

“We hooked up once up after Valentines.” Winnie smiles like she’s caught him in a lie.

Which she technically did, but Gilbert's three brain cells manage to come up with a response right away. “We weren’t official again until March.” He and Winnie were done by then, right?

Stubbornly, she remains unconvinced, ready to continue her line of questioning when they are abruptly interrupted. 

There is a brief knock before the door swings open behind them, the shrill creak of a hinge enough to raise goosebumps on his flesh. Winnie whips around to see the commotion, giving Anne, who enters, a clear view of Gilbert still settled suggestively on the bed.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just . . . looking for the bathroom.” Her eyes flicker slowly from Winnie and then Gilbert, who has since sprung up in a fit of nervous agitation. The front half of Anne is drenched in some sort of liquid that discolors the beige of her dress, giving credence to her bathroom excuse and not as a tactic to catch a cheater in the act. Not that Gilbert is cheating, of course. But he knows he’s got a lot of explaining to do.

His gut reaction is to tell Anne “it’s not what it looks like” while the still functioning side of his brain screams that it would make the scene she just witnessed even more hackneyed and suspicious. As a compromise that makes neither side of him happy, Gilbert remains frustratingly tight-lipped and slow to react. 

Winnie senses an opening in Gilbert’s defenses.

“Hello!” she chirps, luminescent as ever. She gives him a mischievous side eye on her way over toward Anne, bracelets jangling as she offers the redhead her hand. “You must be Anne then. I’m Winifred Rose, but everyone just calls me Winnie. It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“Likewise.” Anne takes her hand, hesitant but kind. She is disarmed by Winnie’s charm, subject to the full force of it being the only one on its receiving end. In her bewilderment, she casts a questioning look in Gilbert’s direction. He can only shrug in response, equally bemused by the tactic Winnie is currently employing. 

“The bathroom’s right down the hall. I can actually show you where it is.” Winnie craftily loops their arms together, not so much dragging Anne away as she is silently manipulating her movements to best suit Winnie’s needs. She tuts when Gilbert moves to follow, snobbishly disapproving. “No need to tag along Gilbert. Anne’s perfectly capable of using the bathroom on her own and I want to use this time to get to know her better. Woman to woman.” 

Woman to woman?

_It’s a trap_ , Gilbert knows, watching as his kitten walks straight into the lion’s den. But he is helpless to stop it without further alerting Winnie to something suspicious about their relationship. The bright side is if Anne slips, he trusts Winnie to keep their secret. But Winnie is also the best practice for keeping up appearances; if Anne can fool the blonde Hollywood starlet, she can easily fool Hollywood at large. 

Minutes drag like hours and hours pass by without incident. Gilbert feels too restless to sit in the room and continue twiddling his thumbs, eventually resolving to venture out and find them. Perhaps slay a couple dragons on his quest. 

It also helps that a couple barges in on him moments later, deep in the throes of passion and are none too fussed to have an audience if Gilbert so chooses to linger. He excuses himself immediately, blushing to the roots of his hair, as he heads in the direction of the nearest bathroom. 

It is easy enough to find. For a mansion with seven bathrooms, there is strangely a queue of people outside the one he thinks Anne and Winnie disappeared into. He asks the first person in line if he’s seen the two women in question and is puzzled when the guy says “ _no, I’ve been waiting on a Jenner sister for the past fifteen minutes._ ” The guy also answers in the negative when Gilbert asks if he’s seen which direction Winnie and Anne have headed off to. 

He meanders throughout Rosslyn’s mansion, ducking and weaving past crowds and other couples making out shamelessly in the hallways. Along the way, he runs into provocateurs who press shots into his hands and won’t let Gilbert pass without throwing them back accordingly. His phone remains stubbornly quiet, two unanswered texts to Anne asking where she’s disappeared to and if she needed rescuing of any kind. 

He is about to send off another one when he quite literally bumps into Anne, almost bowling her over in his attempt to multi-task.

“There you are,” he exclaims, two hands wrapping instinctively around her waist to steady her. They’ve emerged from what appears to be Rosslyn’s room, tucked away in the back corner and unlocked with a key from Winnie’s purse. Vaguely, he wonders when Winnie and Rosslyn became a thing. Or if they’ve always been a thing and he’s just never noticed.

Anne has changed into an oversized t-shirt that skims the tops of her thighs and the way his grip bunches up the material and raises the hemline another two inches sends Gilbert’s into fight or flight. He releases her immediately, face overheating in a way that he can’t entirely blame on the amount of alcohol he’s consumed while Anne is similarly affected, covertly trying to stretch out the fabric over her bare enough legs. 

Winnie watches the entire exchange with a predatory grin. He’s not sure what information she’s gleaned from her time with Anne and he also has a feeling she won’t allow him to debrief with his “girlfriend” before one of them slips up. But Gilbert is desperate to get away, the shots he took earlier working its way into his bloodstream and making him see double and for, brief flashes, even triple. While multiple Annes is a good enough incentive to keep drinking, Gilbert hates dealing with the morning after and more importantly can’t guarantee that he won’t misfire in front of Winnie. 

“Annnnnnne,” he slurs, turning to face the redhead but tipsy enough that the room is spinning in dizzyingly slow motion. “Let’s go ‘ome please.” By Gilbert’s calculation, he is about fifteen minutes away from total inebriation. Even _looking_ at alcohol might put him over the edge.

“Not so fast.” Winnie stops them, a flash of irritation on her still-perfectly made face. Just when she’s gained the upper hand, he suddenly wants to retreat? As far as Winnie’s concerned, Gilbert is determinedly not playing fair. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” 

“Wut’re you talm’ing about? I saw you in Toronto a coupladays ago.”

“A total lifetime then.” She grabs Gilbert’s hand in an overly familiar fashion. “Plus, we never did finish our conversation from earlier.” She bats her big, baby blues. Even if she doesn’t mean to, everything Winnie says and does comes out in a slightly suggestive manner.

Anne surprisingly speaks up. “Actually, I think Gilbert’s right. We should go home. Right now.” She snatches his hand out of Winnie’s grip and envelopes it into her own, sure grasp. He stumbles behind her, like an oversized puppy. “It was very nice meeting you!” Anne calls dismissively over her shoulder, not even waiting for a response before leading him along.

Gilbert turns to look at Winnie, who is not so much shocked as she is infinitely amused. He sees the shaking of her shoulders as she unloads peals of laughter. The last he sees of her before they round the corner is a manicured wave of Winnie’s hand while the other mimics the universal sign for ‘phone call’. No way is she letting this drop so easily and no way that she won’t _not_ take advantage of his addled mental state in the morning. She will definitely call him at an unreasonably early hour and Gilbert will have to pick up or she will launch a full-scale investigation in person.

The alcohol is hitting him hard all of a sudden; he can barely keep up with Anne.

Despite this, she moves confidently throughout the house, as if she’s already memorized the layout. They do a couple of laps before she trots him out the door, all the while scanning for Cole to at least say her goodbyes. They do not end up seeing the tall blonde during their rounds, so Anne settles for texting him a quick message instead. 

As she pulls out her phone, Gilbert notices for the first time her background. Not the lockscreen, which is a scenic shot of Green Gables in the Spring, cherry blossoms in full bloom painting the house pink and white around the perimeter. But her phone background, clearly pictured without a million apps in the way (Anne is decidedly minimal when it comes to technology). A picture of Gilbert from years ago, during his three-episode stint on _Blood Money_. He looks younger in the close-up, newsboy cap pulled low over his curls, with a dirtied face appropriate to the street urchin turned businessman he was portraying at the time. But the photo is a rarity, one of the more uncommon screen captures floating around on the internet as it was only tweeted out once on an official but inactive behind the scenes account and never disseminated widely after that. Anne has either had to scour the internet for the picture, or have had it set to her background all those years ago and never bothered to change it. 

“That’sssme,” Gilbert points out as Anne closes her texts messages and moves to pull up the Uber app. 

“Oh yeah,” Anne blushes, ordering them a car and quickly putting away the device. The guilty way Anne grips the phone with two hands behind her back, blocking the evidence from his view; she is banking on Gilbert’s drunken state to follow the philosophy of ‘out of sight, out of mind’. “I guess it is.” 

“Lemme seeitplease.” Gilbert makes grabby hands, unfortunately (for Anne) retaining his sense of object permanence like a proper 22 year old. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yers.” He even waggles his eyebrows suggestively, trying to charm his way into seeing her background up close.

Anne laughs, but does not relent. It isn’t fair how much more sober she is. “C’mon, Gil. Our ride is here.” 

He follows the line of her pointed finger. Sure enough, the blue Honda Accord pulls up at the base of the driveway. There are too many cars parked in a tetris formation for their driver to do anything other than idle in wait. 

The steep decline downhill proves difficult for Gilbert’s lack of coordination. He nearly stumbles twice before he grabs hold of Anne’s shoulder and she reflexively hooks an arm around his waist, a total reversal of earlier events. She still smells like the Grey Goose and jungle juice that was spilled all over her earlier, but the subtle scent of her banana shampoo somehow lingers beneath it all. Gilbert is far too heavy to be leaning nearly half his weight against her frame, but he finds he likes the press of their bodies together as they fumble around in the dark. 

Gilbert collapses face-first into the Uber while Anne climbs in on the other side. His head searches like a rooting child for her lap, a sudden bout of vertigo preventing him from sitting up and buckling in. He wiggles blindly back and forth before Anne’s fingers push his scalp into the divot between her legs. They don’t leave his scalp for the rest of the car ride either, gently massaging, combing, and scratching at his curly head of hair.

Gilbert hums appreciatively, entirely content for the first time in a long time. “Iloveyou,” he slurs, finally not caring how it lands. The alcohol makes him feel weightless, and bold. It’s nothing that Anne doesn’t already know. 

But her hands freeze suddenly, and Gilbert whines at the lack of movement. “What?” she whispers, asking him to repeat it. 

His drunken brain is slightly irritated she doesn’t get it the first time. How many times does he have to confess?

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. You are the lovveofmylyf. I’m being srs. No takesy-backsiesssssss. ForeEVER? NO, FIVE EVER. For the rest ofmylife.” Gilbert turns to press a kiss to any part of her body he can reach. “Doyou love me back?” he whispers hopefully, _desperately_ , against the bare skin of her leg.

There is silence save for the nighttime traffic of LA. He can also hear his heartbeat, unnaturally slow and steady in his ears. 

“Of course,” she whispers quietly, starting up her ministrations again. Gilbert’s sigh raises goosebumps against his lips. He presses another kiss there, greedy for more. “Of course I love you, Gilbert.”

-

He’ll remember none of this in the morning. He’s _far_ too drunk to remember any of this in the morning.

But in this moment, Gilbert drifts off to sleep, elated. Gilbert drifts off to sleep knowing that he loves Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. Gilbert drifts off to sleep knowing that Anne Shirley-Cuthbert loves him back. 

Maybe, if he is to remember any of this at all, he will remember it as a particularly happy dream.

_“Of course I love you, Gilbert.”_

A good dream. The best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter to make up for the cliff-hanger last week. I feel like this update in particular would have been interesting to read from Anne’s POV (and I read all of your comments, asking for it), but because I have worms for brains, Gilbert’s perspective just comes easier to me. 
> 
> And in case it isn’t painfully obvious, this story is just one desperate attempt to get Uber to sponsor me. It is entirely purposeful, the amount of scenes I’ve written where one or both of them are getting into a ride share. Absolutely boggled how any of you stick around despite this.


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter to make up for the slightly longer delay. Sometimes, I just get really insecure about my writing, you know?

Gilbert is surprised he wakes up in the morning given the state of his hangover, which is unbearable at best and soul-crushing the rest of the time. Sunlight seems to be hitting him in HD, casting everything in too sharp an edge so as to hurt his eyes and brain trying to process the image in real-time. The only welcome sight in the room is the glass of water on his side table, two aspirin pills accompanied by a note that says _Drink Me!_ in Anne’s flowery, perfect script. 

He can see more of her touch throughout the room, from the neat way she’s folded yesterday’s clothes atop his dresser to the trashcan and towel left strategically by the bed. He briefly wonders if the house will be like this as the months go by, traces like treasures that Anne leaves behind in her wake. He wonders if they’ll be buried long enough to be found later, when she returns back to Avonlea and Gilbert’s left behind on his own. 

He stretches out to release some of the tension in his muscles, trying to recall how he got into bed. He doesn’t even remember making it home, much less anything past Anne barging in on him and Winnie the night before.

 _What the fuck was I thinking?_ He’s finally sober enough to feel shame. 

Gilbert resists the urge to muffle a scream into his pillow, if only because it’s entirely too painful to do anything outside of staring listlessly at the ceiling. He almost deserves this hangover; penance for last night and the blunders he’s made throughout the years to bring him to this point. Fake-dating the love of his life and fending off the woman he tried to forget her with, that is.

There are no lingering feelings between him and Winnie outside of general companionship. The blonde is only being difficult for the sake of being difficult; persistent and nosy yes, but not intentionally malicious. She has a natural curiosity that cannot be suppressed. 

In this and many regards, there are shades of similarity between her and Anne. It is what drew him to Winnie initially, during a table read for their second movie together; realizing that theirs is the same sense of imagination, internalized in Winnie’s character work vs. projected out into the world as Anne does. 

Gilbert spends the bulk of their time together in a limbo of wanting to move on but too caught up in her and Anne’s likeness to stop. It is weeks of this internal battle before his moral conscience takes over and Gilbert finally pulls the plug, recognizing how unfair he’s being to Winnie and realizing that no one else could ever measure up to Anne. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Winnie intones during his attempt at breaking up. He spends a lot of words just to talk himself in circles, eventually managing a sincere apology by the end of it. “You’re not exactly breaking my heart, Gilly Boy. I knew this was a casual thing going into it.”

“I’m sorry anyways,” he says again, but Winnie rolls her eyes.

“We’re still going to be friends,” she makes a command out of what should be question. Winnie is determined to move past this with ease; to fully absorb the fling into just another aspect of their history. The epitome of a Cool Girl, if such an archetype exists.

Headache pounding, Gilbert swallows the pills and attempts to go back to sleep when there is a knock on his door. Anne peeks her head in, just to check if he’s breathing and/or somewhat appropriately clothed, before letting herself in. 

She looks like a fresh-sprung daisy, no worse for wear, although Anne could emerge from the depths of Shrek’s swamp and he would still draw parallels to the Birth of Venus. Her damp hair drips water downwards, pooling in a spot that turns her t-shirt translucent. 

“Are you alive?” she asks at a volume that edges on the wrong side of loud. Gilbert visibly winces, throwing an arm over his face so she can’t observe the tragic effects of his hangover.

“For personal reasons, I have decided to pass away.” His voice is throaty from disuse. It is a tremendous chore just to speak the words aloud, scratching their way out like sandpaper against his lips.

A sudden dip in the mattress beside his waist indicates that Anne has sat down and is currently taking in the state of Gilbert’s bedhead and morning after breath. She pries his arm off to get a better look and to assess the damage up close.

“You actually look awful,” she laughs, evidently pleased by what she sees. “This is such a surprise; you’re normally so perfect and put together.” 

“I would have preferred to keep up the illusion.” Gilbert returns the appendage to his face, if only to cover up how equally pleased her comment makes him feel. A warm glow spreads throughout his chest, tiny tendrils that hook deep and climb high. 

“C’mon. Get up. I made you breakfast downstairs.” 

It is tempting, but—“Name your price.”

Anne is adorably confused. “Excuse me?” 

“For breakfast in bed. I’ll give you anything, Anne. Even that football franchise you asked for. Just don’t make me move.” 

Each of his appendages weighs a metric ton, at least. The effort it took just to turn onto his side expels all of the air from inside of Gilbert’s lungs. 

“C’mon Gil. It’s a beautiful day to be alive! Don’t you want to breathe in some fresh air at some point?” 

“This is Los Angeles, California,” he dead-pans into his pillow. “Nothing about our air is fresh.” 

Anne knows better than to respond to his grumpy temperament right now. She braids her fingers with his own instead, pulling gently at his hand in an effort to make him budge. Gilbert’s too focused on the ease in which she does this, unthinkingly holding his hand for the third time in three days.

 _When will it become muscle memory?_ he wonders wistfully to himself.

Anne tugs at his arm a few more times ineffectually before a lightbulb goes off in her brain. She disappears from the room entirely, leaving Gilbert alone to steep in his ailments. The instinct to follow is strong, but he’s already too committed to the act of being a baby. 

In her absence, Gilbert takes a moment to inventory his condition. From head to toe, the symptoms are as follows: pounding headache, cottonmouth, nausea and heartburn, aching limbs, regret, and a case of mild amnesia plus stupidity. 

“Fuuuuuck,” he mouths silently, front teeth to bottom lip clamped like a vice to form the syllable. 

Anne’s re-entrance brings with it the whiff of french vanilla creamer. She even wafts the steam over with the back of her hand.

Gilbert rises like the dead with a backtrack of moans and cracking bones in accompaniment. It takes all of his willpower to sit fully upright, the desire for coffee profound and all-consuming. He follows Anne mindlessly down the stairs, trailing after the scent of coffee she keeps in a mug out of reach. 

Anne sets the bribe down next to a waffle stack on the counter. Gilbert’s mouth waters, hungry, at the same time he feels the roil of battery acid in his stomach. The unbalanced feng shui of his digestive tract should be enough to discourage the consumption of anything, liquid or otherwise. But his body, despite the hangover, is practically begging for caffeine. 

Like a saint, Anne fixes him a plate of plain toast as well, asking nonchalantly over her shoulder if the mail has been brought in at all.

Gilbert can neither confirm nor deny, citing that he hasn’t thought to check since arriving back home on Friday afternoon. Usually, he has his assistant sort through the pile for him and place the pertinent mail on his desk. But Gilbert’s hired a new one only recently and isn’t sure if he’s even assigned her that task or taught her what to prioritize just yet. 

Gilbert’s also too focused on chewing and swallowing and breathing past his nausea that the anticipation in Anne’s voice goes unnoticed. Looking at her feels like an impossible task, backlit as she is by sunlight and a general heavenly aura, that he misses the nervous expression she wears as well.

“Are you waiting on something?” Gilbert asks, halfway distracted. The toast is suddenly not sitting right in his stomach.

Anne replies noncommittally, a hum in her throat that is neither negative or affirmative. 

She puts on a nature documentary in the background when they eventually migrate to the living room. Gilbert mostly ignores it, finding the colors and sweeping drone shots to be too much stimuli for his addled brain to handle, but likes watching Anne’s expressions as the mother polar bear emerges from her den. She sits criss-cross applesauce on the floor beside his feet, eating waffles on the coffee table to keep from dropping crumbs. Gilbert freestyles it on the couch, using his thighs for leverage as he digs into his meal. 

He figures now’s as good a time as any to ask.

“So what happened after the party?” he floats the question out there in a somewhat casual tone. No segue or preamble; just drops it straight into the fray. Gilbert is hyper-focused on getting a perfectly even spread of butter between all the ridges and grooves of his waffle, so much so that he’s unable to look at Anne directly. But when the redhead is silent for a stretch of time two moments too long, Gilbert works up the nerve to peek from underneath his lashes.

Plausibly, Anne could just be absorbed in the documentary and hadn’t heard him ask over the lines of narration. But she is sitting ram-rod straight, the piece of waffle at the end of her fork falling flat back onto the plate. Her face and neck break out into an almost violent shade of red, truer to cherry than a cherry tomato. Gilbert’s not sure if she looks more embarrassed or upset, but either way this can’t be a good reaction to a question about last night.

As if realizing she’s let the silence go on for too long, Anne squeaks out a “nothing much!” with too much panache to be anything other than an underexaggeration. She runs a nervous hand through her mop of red hair, brushing out the tangles from her still-drying tresses. “We said goodbye to Winnie, got into an Uber afterwards, and left. It was all very uneventful, although I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to hold your hair back as you puked. Honestly, you were very neat about the whole thing and have exceptional . . . aim.” Anne colors even darker at the last word, staring down at her lap. 

Gilbert is actually horrified. Like, distressingly so. He knows being in such close quarters with Anne all the time means eventually breaching the domain of bodily functions. But Gilbert was hoping to delay the puking aspect of it until he’s at least secured her hand in marriage.

“Did I do or say anything else I wasn’t supposed to?” _Just put me out of my misery already._

Anne’s answer comes quicker this time, but the blush still remains. “No, nothing untoward. Or unwelcomed, at least.” She resumes her eating, just for something to do.

The answer is vague enough that Gilbert considers asking her to elaborate, but doesn’t know if he wants a play by play of his drunken misadventures. Anne already seems hesitant to talk about it, putting back mouthfuls of waffles without taking a drink. Plus, he’s also too preoccupied with the storm cloud on the horizon.

As the quiet between them stretches, Gilbert deliberates on broaching the topic of Winnie first. Or, alternatively, letting Anne do it when she’s finally good and ready. It’s a conversation they have to have, hanging over them like a veil and blocking any chance at progress. But the last time they came close, after Ruby revealed what her anecdote to the reporters was, Anne completely denied any feelings of jealousy while Gilbert told a half-truth about the nature of his and Winnie’s relationship.

At the end of the day, it boils down to whether Gilbert would rather be proactive and risk a premature conversation, or wait and play defense when shit eventually hits the fan.

Unknowingly, Anne ends up making the decision for him. She runs another hand through her hair, gathering half of it and beginning to braid. “So what were you and Winnie talking about, before I walked in?” 

A nervous swallow. _Defense it is._

Somewhat calmly, Gilbert assesses the situation. He doesn’t sense any outright hostility, judging by the combination of Anne’s body language and tone. Her usage of neutral terms such as “talking” and “walked” vs. ‘whispering’ and ‘interrupted’ suggests that she may be amenable to the truth, or Gilbert’s version of it at least. Maybe Anne is truly as unbothered as she looks?

But then again, his radar when it comes to things that will set Anne Shirley-Cuthbert off is woefully misaligned. There have been plenty of times when Gilbert thinks a conversation is going well only to unassumingly put his foot in it with Anne. Her temper will flare from seemingly out of nowhere, hot and prickly and astonishing to behold. He’s come to terms with the fact that there is no way to anticipate her reactions and so Gilbert doesn’t bother to try. Not anymore, anyways.

She is as changing as the moon, his Anne with an E.

“We weren’t so much talking,” Gilbert admits haltingly, “as it was a forced interrogation. She spent the entire time grilling me about our dating history, going back to high school.” 

If any of this shocks her, her expression remains unreadable. Anne returns partial attention to the documentary in front of them, one ear attuned to their unfolding exchange. “Is she normally that curious about all the people you date?” 

“She’s just an incredibly curious person in general.” It sounds almost defensive, which is definitely a mistake. Gilbert backtracks immediately, tripping over his words in an attempt to explain. “We’re just, we’re _friends_ , Winnie and I. It’s really hard not to be, when our careers have been so closely tied together.” 

“But have you always been _just_ friends?” Anne asks, in a quiet voice that is almost drowned out by narration.

He wants to run his head through a wall. Gilbert should be more than ready to answer this line of questioning—he addressed it about a million times during the height of his and Winnie’s dating rumours. But the question is different coming from Anne, and one he can’t brush off like water under the bridge. Gilbert’s response holds more weight than to just assuage the general public’s speculation. It is the foundation of trust between his and Anne’s relationship moving forward. 

“We were . . . involved for a time. But it was totally casual, I swear.”

“Then why did it end?”

This answer comes easier. “I’m not really a casual kind of guy.” 

It took a lot of unfulfilling hook-ups and a failed relationship with Winnie to realize it, but Gilbert’s only looking that that can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars, over the fence, World Series kind of love*. The one he knows he can only find with Anne. But he doesn’t tell her as much.

“Oh.” The singular syllable is dense, dropping like a rock in front of his feet. In contrast, Anne’s voice sounds small, like it’s curling in on itself before she asks, “Does that mean you developed feelings for her then? And she turned you down?”

Gilbert is quick to correct her, but not out of wounded pride. He needs to clear up this misconception before Anne’s imagination runs away with her and she ignores every word he’s about to say. “Quite the opposite, actually. We were together for less than two months and neither of us took the relationship very seriously, if at all. After a while, I just couldn’t bring myself to be with someone I could never imagine loving in the way that I love–”

“In the way that you love . . . ?” Anne prompts him to continue.

 _You._ “Nothing. No one. I just . . . didn’t love Winnie the way that I should’ve.” He sets his plate of half-eaten waffles aside, suddenly sick of the syrup.

There is a sense of finality to the conversation, even if it might not be the last time they speak on the topic of Winnie. Gilbert has laid his cards down for Anne to pass judgement; there is nothing else he can do and very little he could say that would make much of a difference towards the outcome. Anne has all the supporting evidence she needs to come to a conclusion, which she takes her time in reaching as they sit through another episode of _Planet Earth_.

Halfway through Shallow Seas, Anne leans back against the sofa, the lines of tension between her shoulder blades and spine from sitting up for so long finally fading away. She uncrosses her legs, long and lean when they stretch out in front of her, before crossing them back at the ankles and resting her head against Gilbert’s knee. She points her chin slightly to find a more comfortable position, stopping when he can see the profile of her nose and kissable jawline. Her flyaway hairs tickle slightly against his shin and if Gilbert accidentally curls the end of her braid around his finger in an attempt to scratch an itch, Anne remains purposefully mute on the matter.

“Carrots?” he whispers, not sure how to phrase his question. But she nods–once–and then a second time, softer, which seems like answer enough to him.

It is an unspoken act of forgiveness.

Gilbert melts into her touch and the relief that this singular gesture grants him, impossibly lighter than if the laws of gravity had been lifted. All that he is, is anchored to Anne and this moment. Together, they ground him. 

He could live forever in this memory.

-

But despite Gilbert’s elation, there is an uneasiness that permeates their relationship after that, evident in the way they tiptoe around each other like points on two concentric circles. As it stands, he and Anne are embroiled in a game halfway between chicken and defining the relationship. Neither of them will make the first move, so they’re stuck sneaking glances back and forth and trading touches that linger but do not press. 

In many ways, it is much easier to play pretend than it is to face each other honestly behind closed doors. 

They are friends, but not friends. Lovers, but fake ones (except for the times when it feels impossibly real; when Anne looks at him a certain way and Gilbert is _almost_ convinced). Thanks to Mary’s masterful chokehold on the flow of information, there is still a general buzz around their relationship whenever they step out for “private” dates that double as publicity stunts as well. ‘Shirbert’ makes headlines on slower news days in the press, but the attention paid to them is nothing to the extent of what it was like outside of Anne’s boarding house in Charlottetown. 

He feels a sense of nostalgia for that time, despite it only being a mere month past. 

In the beginning, he and Anne could pass off anything under the guise of testing the waters. Gilbert could hold Anne’s hand or kiss her cheek or even touch fingers to her waist because they didn’t know the limits of their performance. How much does it take to convince an audience of their love? Gilbert doesn’t know, but he’s more than willing to give it a try. 

But the absence of touch when they’re alone drives Gilbert insane. Logically, he can understand the need to erect boundaries in private but his body can’t catch up as quickly. It constantly craves the feel of Anne’s skin, the scent of her hair, and her pulse on his lips as he presses kisses into the crook of her neck. 

Without the cameras rolling, he is unsure how to act. Gilbert constantly questions what part he has to play when they lead private lives, but are public property. 

Meanwhile, Anne is three weeks into her internship, which takes her away from home for ten hours out of the day. Jack and Jumper work her tirelessly, burying her under a mountain of paperwork and errands and a docket of projects that is exceptionally demanding for an intern. But Anne rises to the challenge, as she always does when faced with one. But it takes a toll on her mental health; she has maybe five minutes during lunch when she is relaxed enough to string together a handful of non work-related thoughts. 

Unintelligible as they are, Gilbert often savors the texts that Anne translates them into. ( _The eggs are a lie, but perhaps Guillermo made some points!)_ Sad as it is _,_ these texts are the one consistent point of contact he has with Anne throughout the week. More often than not, she is exhausted after work and retreats sometimes wordlessly into the pool house to sleep off the stress of her day. 

Gilbert doesn’t get to see much of Anne over the weekends either, seeing as how she spends almost all of them with Cole.

“Just ask to join them,” Winnie says impatiently over coffee. It's only the seventh time she’s suggested this, after the first six overtures go unheard (and unheeded). 

Winnie is, of course, apprised of the situation after Gilbert caves and tells her the truth. She almost takes the news with grace, save for the unbecoming screech she releases over the phone, immediately followed by _I knew it! I knew it! I KNEW IT!_ in all of her smug, self-righteous glory.

They have a standing brunch reservation every other Sunday at Hotel Bel Air. Gilbert is in between projects and Winnie tells him, under no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t want to act alongside him ever again for the next decade, _at least_. So they use brunch as their opportunity to fill in the void left by separate undertakings. Or, in Gilbert’s case, to lament the tortured circumstances that are entirely not his fault.

“I’m too famous,” he replies, which sounds just as annoying out loud as it did in his head. Gilbert explains, “I don’t want to ruin Anne’s experience, being bogged down by crowds who want my autograph or picture.” 

Winnie pops the yolk of her eggs benedict, trying her best not to snort. A slight breeze ruffles the blonde tresses of her hair. “Wild how as that sentence went on, it somehow only got worse.” 

Gilbert doesn’t bother to apologize. Winnie, of all people, should know exactly what he means. 

She isn’t without sympathy, at least. “Did you ever consider that maybe, to Anne, spending time with you is worth the trade-off of dealing with fans?” 

Gilbert cannot lie and say that he has. Over the years, he’s conditioned himself to never presume anything about the redhead’s internal logic. Everything he knows about Anne is taken at face-value. She is too capricious a creature for Gilbert to ever think he’s got her pinned.

Winnie must sense an impasse, because she lets the comment slide. “If all else fails, just start wearing ridiculously tiny pajamas around her. She’s not exactly immune to your good looks.” 

That, at least, piques Gilbert’s interest. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, conspiratorially. 

“Well now you’re just fishing for compliments.” Winnie laughs but leans in closer. “At the risk of breaking Anne’s trust, I’ll let you in on a little secret: the part of your body that drives Anne wild? It’s actually your chin.” She whispers the last part like she is trading state secrets over a shared plate of tapenade.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Gilbert scoffs but touches a hand to his chin nonetheless. Now that she mentions it, he does have a rather good one. “When would Anne have told you that?”

“In the bathroom! At the party!” Winnie is affronted by the accusation that she’s a liar. “I asked her what finally convinced her to date you and she said it was after noticing what a splendid chin you had!”

“Oh really?” he baits her. “And what else did you talk about without me?”

Winnie, unfortunately, doesn't fall for it, making a motion like zipping her lips. “Nuh uh, no way. I already broke girl code telling you the thing about your chin.”

“Then what’s a couple more secrets off the top?” He gives her his most charming smile. “As you English say: in for a penny, in for a pound.” 

“Since we’re practicing cultural exchange and all, what’s the Canadian equivalent for ‘get fucked’?”

-

He is giving Winnie a ride after brunch when a 5.7 magnitude earthquake rocks Los Angeles county. Gilbert feels the vibrations through the steering wheel of his car and questions its origins before Winnie points out the unfolding landscape in front of them. The 101 stretches out ominously ahead, horizon line visibly oscillating before he finally connects the dots.

“It’s an earthquake,” Gilbert feels like he’s pointing out the obvious. He turns on his hazards and pulls off to the side, watching as the cars around him try to safely do the same. Winnie checks Twitter, just in case she is alone in experiencing this natural phenomenon.

“I’ve never felt an earthquake this strong,” she admits, clutching the overhead handle when a particularly powerful jolt lifts her butt maybe ten centimeters off the seat. Gilbert concurs, remembering his first one all those years ago and being thankful he was on the toilet at the time. 

When he’s fairly certain the coast is clear, Gilbert dials Anne’s number. 

“Gil,” she picks up on the second ring, breathless as if she’sd just been running a marathon. “Did you feel that? Are you ok?” She babbles on about the earthquake without waiting for a response. 

Gilbert can only make out snatches of her chatter, words like excreable and flabbergasted falling freely from her lips. He can only sit back and relax, thankful to hear the long-winded reaction indicating that Anne’s alright.

“But oh!” she gasps, sudden enough to catch his attention. “It’s awful, truly awful. I heard something loud collapse in the backyard before you called and when I went to check, I noticed the left side of the pool house buckling under!” Anne cries into the phone. “I think there’s a crack in the foundation and now the whole thing is structurally compromised. What about all my things? What am I doing to do?” 

Gilbert is calm and collected in his response. “You’re moving into the main house, obviously. Unless that’s also collapsed and you’ve just failed to mention.” 

Anne sniffs, forcing a laugh. “No, although some of your movie posters are terribly askew.” 

Not the worst damage a 5.7 magnitude earthquake could cause. He should be grateful.

“Listen,” Gilbert puts the car back into drive. Winnie, in the passenger seat, is not even pretending she isn’t eavesdropping. “I’ll be back in 20 minutes. We can assess the damage from there and see if we might be able to salvage some of your things. In the meantime, you can take any of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. Does that sound like a plan?” 

Gilbert acts as the foil to Anne’s theatrics, but he hears her whisper a quiet yes over the phone. Even Anne can’t deny the impracticality of living under a roof that could collapse in on her by morning. Plus it isn’t much of a leap, moving into the main house from the pool house when she often uses his living room and kitchen anyways.

Winnie cackles when the call ends, pleased as punch with herself. She is the type of person to conjure up an earthquake just for laughs and to make Gilbert’s life more difficult. “Does this mean Operation Tiny Underpants is a go?”

“Do me a favor, Winnie? Shut up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a beautiful line from It Takes Two
> 
> I am slowly trying to be better about responding to comments, but am frankly very intimidated by how COOL you are and how UNCOOL I am and how WEENIE HUT JR. my replies continue to be. 
> 
> But eight chapters in and I’ve finally sat myself down to map out the rest of the story. I really did have aspirations of making this a Serious Fic with like . . . a plot and conflict and the whole nine yards. However, I am finally coming to terms with the fact that I am a writer who only wants to write Fluff With Backstory and am bad at stretching things out because I crave instant gratification and want these dumb kids to be together already. 
> 
> TL;DR: only two more chapters and an epilogue to go, baby!


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am posting this, Lorde has just announced a new album. Gilbert has 24 hours to accidentally disclose the existence of his girlfriend, who lives in Canada, and usurp that top Twitter trend if this story is to be canonized. 
> 
> (As always, I am a bad writer who gives things a cursory glance before she posts, so this chapter is subject to be overhauled in the morning when I've actually slept a wink or two.)

The adjustment from reluctant landlord to sexually frustrated roommate is a master class in Suffering, Gilbert is quick to discover. As it stands, he struggles just to get through the days, long and varied as they are but ultimately boil down to the same two points: Gilbert Blythe is in love, and Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is oblivious. 

Living with Anne when they were still separated by buildings and busy schedules was one thing, but living down the hallway from her, with all of the cohabitated close encounters that entails, is an entirely different beast.

For one thing, he smells her everywhere; phantom whiffs of banana shampoo and her bergamot body wash in the farthest-flung corners of the house. Gilbert will go to pull a bath towel from the linen closet and be blasted by the smells, reminding him of a presence that haunts him even when she’s gone. Not that Anne is far from mind at any given moment, but Gilbert might never know peace if this continues on any longer. 

He foolishly thought living with the redhead would bring out some of her more human qualities, like a tendency to leave drawers and cabinet doors open or maybe dishes in the sink for longer than is polite. But Anne does all of these things and more, and yet it doesn’t do anything to dampen the intensity of Gilbert’s feelings for her. If anything, it just makes the fantasy more real—of getting married and growing old together, Anne willfully pressing her cold feet onto his thighs as they’re watching movies on the couch, and unclogging her hair from the shower drain until the day he dies.

Looking back, Gilbert doesn’t know how he did it. Spending three years apart was hard, but within the realm of possibility. Now, Gilbert finds himself needing a hit of Anne every hour just to get by.

Anne still spends most of the week trading in her soul at Jack & Jumper, but there are pockets of time in the mornings and evenings where she’s lucid enough to tell him about her dreams the night before, the other male intern who insists on one-upping her during meetings, or just whatever’s been stewing in the back of her head as she goes through thousands of images doing research on potential book covers at work. 

Gilbert maximizes their time together through training his body to wake up before six in the morning. Anne is normally up when the sun is up, a habit Gilbert has long-since shaken given the variability of his schedule and carry-over from frequent nights out when he was still hanging with Rosslyn and crew. But living with Anne means dealing with her custom of daydreaming out loud, breaking out into song, and general inability to do anything quietly or efficiently. It is also deliberate, the way she rouses him from bed with a cup of coffee in the morning. 

“Rise and shine!” Anne sings from the kitchen. The acoustics in his house carries her voice up the stairs.

Gilbert groans in response, already half awake when the smell of coffee wafts in from under his door. That, and the sound of Anne’s voice humming _Don't Cry For Me, Argentina_ succeeds in waking him up the other half of the way. 

Anne doesn’t have to leave for another two hours, but they’ve settled into a routine of lazing around together before she goes. So sleepily, Gilbert rises and drags himself downstairs. 

The uneasiness between them fades after a while and with forced proximity, but leaves in its wake a tension that winds Gilbert up tighter than a spring-loaded gun. 

Winnie’s advice appears to be indiscriminate or at least unoriginal, because Anne has taken to the philosophy of the itty bitty underwear committee. She flounces around in a series of oversized t-shirts that barely reach mid-thigh and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes from getting stuck in a permanent side-eye from unsubtly checking her out. Anne doesn’t seem to notice or care about her state of undress, having become used to a certain level of comfort from boarding exclusively with girls throughout college. Meanwhile, Gilbert suffers in silence because if Anne doesn’t comment, then neither will he. 

At the very least, he won’t admit to making a habit of putting plates and dishes on a higher shelf in the cupboard. In his defense, Anne set them there first. Gilbert just doesn’t . . . dissuade her from that location. 

“I’ll grab the honey,” he says after clearing his throat. Gilbert has to forcibly tear his eyes away from Anne’s bottom in order to regain brain function. “I’ll be out in a second.” 

They take breakfast out on the veranda most days to watch the world wake up around them. Los Angeles is almost peaceful in the morning, before traffic hits and society starts up again. Gilbert loves these quieter moments with Anne, who is too lost in her own thoughts to notice him observing her up close.

He notes the way the Californian sun rays fashion more and more freckles on her skin, spread across her nose bridge and on the tops of her delicate shoulders. Spring suits Anne best, but summer is a close call; Gilbert likes the longer days in which he spends by her side, suffused in Anne’s warmth and summer's languid embrace. 

They sit side by side on the swinging bench, facing the mountain range while the sun slinks up over the horizon, casting the world in shades of golden amber.

“What are you thinking about?” Gilbert asks after a while. Some days, Anne will volunteer this information on her own, but habit and insecurities around ‘talking too much’ force her to hold her tongue some mornings as well. Gilbert goes out of his way to reassure Anne that her thoughts are not a burden. He only wishes he could burrow a hole into her brain, to see the world the way Anne sees it through her eyes: in all of its wide and unknowable glory.

“I was wondering if the sunrises here and the sunrises back in Avonlea are truly one in the same,” she answers, melancholy. 

“Well they’re two time zones and 3500 miles apart.” Gilbert is pragmatic as ever, a trait Anne claims is a function of being a Virgo. “If anything, the sunrises here are just a reflection of the ones that dawn back in Avonlea.” 

“That’s a nice thought.” Anne stretches before dropping her head drowsily against his shoulder. She rests her eyes for a moment, on the verge of dozing off. “Is the sky like a mirror then? And my reflection is just somewhere out there, roaming around?” 

Gilbert brushes a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it back behind her ear in a painstakingly tender gesture. His heart feels like it has grown three times too big for his chest cavity to contain. “There isn’t anyone on this earth like you, Anne-girl.” 

She is quiet for a moment, either contemplative or asleep. Her steady breathing is at odds with the nimble chirrup of morning doves all around them. But eventually she replies, “I’d like to think our reflections have found each other, too. That they’re together like this. Happy.” 

Gilbert reflects upon that sentiment. Is he happy? Truly? He might not have said yes all those years ago, when he left Avonlea an orphan. But he has a new family now: Bash and Mary and their soon to arrive loved one. He has a bustling career that puts more than just food on the table and lives a life he can be proud of in many regards. Gilbert even has the love of a girl, whether or not it extends past the realm of friendship remains to be seen. But Anne is in his life and lightens up his days; inextricably bound together no matter time or distance. Or space and galaxies, too.

Gilbert is inclined to agree, sorry for any version of himself that exists in the infinitesimal realities without their own version of Anne. The Gilbert of this reality though doesn’t put too much stock in Fate. He would like to believe that in every universe, he goes to her.

He presses a kiss into Anne’s hairline, absent-minded in his affection. It is barely a peck and more like a gossamer touch. There and gone again. But the sense of rightness he feels is too strong to let any self-doubt phase him. For once, Gilbert does not second-guess it. He loves her, and that is justification enough.

“C’mon,” he whispers, barely louder than his heartbeat. Anne stirs, but only to burrow her head deeper into his shoulder. She seems equally as content not to move. “You don't want to be late."

-

Cool June fades into the dog days of July. 

By no means is this the longest break Gilbert has taken in-between projects, but this gap feels more and more like a hiatus than a well-deserved vacation. In the past, Bash has always had something lined up or at least in the works. But Gilbert has since instructed his manager to stop fielding interest calls unless they’re from Petunia, complete with an apology for Toronto in one hand and an offer letter in the other.

During this downtime, Gilbert spends his days in abject boredom and occasionally stoops low enough to bother Bash at work when he gets tired of hearing his own thoughts. He picks up reading again and even tries his hand at poetry before realizing that everything he writes sounds juvenile and mediocre. If anything, Gilbert gains more satisfaction balling up the used sheets of paper and tossing them in the wastebin than he does in trying to put his feelings for Anne into words. 

He simply doesn’t have her talent for writing. Not when Gilbert’s poetry is in his eyes, his body language, and facial expressions. It is in the inflection of his voice or the deliberate exhalation of a sigh. He is better at making others’ words come to life than he is at expressing his own. But Gilbert is equally unable to evince poetry when the material he’s been given is less than Frank O’Hara quality.

But, like a bolt out of the blue, Gilbert gets the news through a friend of a friend: _December’s Swan Song_ is re-casting its lead actor due to irreconcilable differences. Petunia is back to the drawing board, as her second choice is committed to a Glee reboot in the fall, and she’ll need to fill the role this week if she doesn’t want to push back her entire production timeline. 

_This is it,_ Gilbert thinks as he digs out his recording equipment from the garage. _This is my chance._

He ropes Anne into helping him film, whose never-ending optimism thinks auditioning is just a mere formality for Gilbert. “You’ve got this in the bag,” she grins, trailing behind him in pursuit of a spot.

Gilbert points the camera to face the french doors overlooking the pool: a strategic move to elicit a feeling of carefree youth. It’s been a while since he’s submitted an audition tape, having been offered the role for his last three films outright. But more serious fare such as this is out of Gilbert’s established wheelhouse, and his full range of affect was less than properly represented throughout the entire _Riders_ franchise. Gilbert’s not sure if he’s shaking off rust or combating nerves about stepping out of his comfort zone. Either way, he’s finding it harder and harder to breathe.

Gilbert doesn’t remember what exactly he intended when he embarked on this acting journey all those years ago. Of course, being Gilbert, he probably wanted to be the best. But all actors dream of stardom without knowing exactly what that entails. There’s a world of difference between Meryl Streep and Keanu Reeves and as much as Gilbert admires John Wick the way all men do, he ultimately wants to be respected for his craft.

This audition feels like a first step off the deep end, similar to the one he took at 19 leaving Canada behind.

He messes with his hair in an attempt to unsettle the curls. “How do I look?” he asks Anne earnestly, both arms open to fully show off the outfit. Gilbert pictures Ralph as a devil may care type, the kind who wears ridiculously deep v-necks and aviators on the back of his head. 

Anne takes a step back, carefully considering. Her eyes linger across the broad expanse of his chest, blinking slowly in a way that straightens his spine to attention. Gilbert almost blushes under the intensity of her stare, squirming when she doesn’t say much of anything at all. Anne only moves when she seems to spot something out of place and carefully raises a hand to his chain. She twists the clasp around so that it doesn’t sit so distractingly up front. The places where her fingertips touch blaze a trail across his skin, burning hot without being painful.

“Very tragically handsome,” Anne replies, out of breath. “You look perfect.” 

The ‘ _to me’_ is implied. 

Retreating, Anne helps to frame him, staring at the little flip screen intently while wiggling the camera back and forth. Gilbert stands nervously with his back to the wall, folding and unfolding the script pages in his hands, slightly dampened with sweat. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Anne admonishes, having to readjust for every millimeter he scoots away from center. 

“Sorry, I’m nervous.”

Anne smiles reassuringly, which works more effectively than any Vicodin he could score at a party. “We’ll grab this in one take, I know it.” 

They are filming a scene that is not quite the climax but serves as the emotional center of the movie. Gilbert highlighted it in his first initial read through, finding the dialogue to be powerful in its simplicity. 

_INT. RALPH’S APARTMENT. DAY._

_Ralph sits Maeve down at the kitchen table, his back to her initially to try and collect his thoughts. Nothing he is about to say will be planned out or contrived. His is a catharsis begging for resolution. This is the last and final time he will confront Maeve._

Anne is running lines with him as Maeve, more than up for the challenge given her dramatic readings of Shakespeare in high school. She stands behind the camera, script flipped to the appropriate page.

“I promise to tone it down, so I don’t accidentally steal your spotlight.”

Gilbert barely registers the joke, too preoccupied with going over the dialogue in his head. He has meticulously polished and re-polished his delivery over the last few weeks, pulling out the script pages to peruse even after he got rejected. Just in case an opportunity like this came around.

“Are you ready?” Anne asks when Gilbert steels himself to start. 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

_Take 1:_

“Ralph -”

“No, Maeve. Just listen. Just sit there and listen and don’t say anything at all because you know exactly how to derail me. How to redirect the conversation so that we end up skating around the topic.”

“I didn’t know you thought of me as so manipulative.” 

Gilbert laughs in response, an sardonic-sounding thing. “Not deliberately so. You just have a strong sense of self-preservation.” 

“And what exactly am I preserving myself from?”

“This. Us. What we could be. What we aren’t. The world, even.” 

“This? This is just messing around. We are nothing. I thought you understood that.”

“How can we be nothing, Mae? When we crawl into bed with each other every night and show each other even the darkest parts of our hearts? When I love you so much, it makes me believe in soulmates? We are kindred, you and I.” 

“You’re a child,” Anne spits. “This feeling will pass.” 

“You can’t call me a child and then fuck me like a man. There is barely a decade between us.” Gilbert takes a breath so deep he feels a tension snap inside his chest. His next words are an explosion. “Do not pretend that it is a child’s job to pick you up from AA, to cook and clean and make sure you stay alive through the night. To hold you the way I do. And protect you the way I do. Maeve, you can’t say that I’m one thing and then treat me like I’m another. ”

“My apologies then. You’re even worse than a child, Ralph. You are a caretaker. And you get off on it, judging by how easily you brought it up; all the ways in which I _depend_ . Well NEWSFLASH ASSHOLE! I’m an _addict_ and a widow. I’ll depend on _anything_ to get by.” 

“But . . . but you love me.”

“No, Ralph. I’ve never loved you.” 

“Dammit Maeve, YOU LOVE ME. DON’T LIE. DON’T RUN AWAY FROM THIS.”

“I’m not running away from this. I’m standing right here. And you know what Ralph? I’m sober. I’m sober enough for the first time in a long time to realize that you’re nothing. You’re no one. Just another way to cope.” 

At that, Gilbert falls to his knees, pain so real it’s almost visceral. In the back of his head, he wonders if he’s still in frame or if this impromptu judgement call just accidentally ruined the shot. His eyes are too blurry with tears to see the camera screen clearly. 

“Don’t do this.”

“I have to.” 

“But I love you.”

“It isn’t . . . it just isn't enough.” 

Gilbert inhales. “Maeve, you think you’re hurting me. You think that saying these words out loud will make them any less true in your heart. But all you’re really doing is hurting yourself. When you’ve been playing the role of the tragic widower for so long, you’re scared you don’t know who you are without that. And you’re fucking terrified of redefining yourself with me. But this is wrong. You’re wrong. And I’m wrong, too. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. I should have been more patient.”

“No amount of patience will -”

“Stop. Don’t say anything else. Let’s leave it for now, okay?” 

“But -”

“No, Anne. It’s fine. I love you, and that’s enough.”

There are a few more lines back and forth after that, but the nail in the coffin ends right around there. Gilbert wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, feeling blotchy and unattractive but like a weight has been lifted off his shoulder. His first and final take, leaving everything on the table. Gilbert will send it off without regrets. 

“Gil,” Anne says, tinged pink in the cheeks. “At the end there - ”

“I really sold it at the end there, didn’t I?” He gives himself a pat on the back. “The whole falling to my knees thing was unplanned, but felt right in the moment. I can imagine Ralph crawling up to Maeve in her chair and the camera panning in.” 

“Um, yeah. You were great. But - ”

“Only great?” Gilbert furrows his eyebrows. He secretly hoped Anne would be singing his praises by now, and is hurt that, of her extensive vocabulary, she only manages to give him a great. “Should we reshoot?” 

Something in the way he pouts makes Anne break out in laughter. “Phenomenal, stupendous, never before seen, out of this world, amazingly and esoterically spectacular! You are everything and more, Gilbert Blythe.” She dries a stray tear track from his face, thumb swiping gently across his cheekbone to catch the moisture. 

“Now was that so hard?” His voice drops deeper by an octave. He’ll never get over how much more beautiful Anne looks up close.

She is just absently caressing his face at this point, the teardrop long-since evaporated. The moment is charged and heavy with sentiment. But the sound of the camera chirping, indicating a full memory card as Anne had forgotten to hit pause after his take, finally reminds them of their surroundings. 

“Anyway -” Anne clears her throat, pulling her hand away as if burned. 

Gilbert swallows past a lump, likewise stumbling back against the wall. “Anyway -”

Anne cites the need for a bathroom and runs off a second later. Gilbert runs to the kitchen and washes his face, the sound of running water almost enough to drown out the pounding of GIlbert’s pulse in his ears.

Most days, he is thankful for the strides he is making with Anne, slowly but steadily becoming acclimated to touch. But most days, he is also not sure his body can handle the pace at which they’re going, exponentially faster than anything they’ve experienced in the past. More and more, he finds himself having to do laundry while Anne is at work. 

Afterwards, when Gilbert edits the video to fit audition requirements, he only watches enough to discern the ending of the scene. As a general rule, he hates watching himself back without someone else to temper his overly critical self-review. Thus, Gilbert doesn’t even notice his Freudian slip with Anne’s name at the end; just uploads the recording and emails it off to Petunia for review. 

(And if he saves the extra clip of him and Anne at the end in an unnamed folder on his desktop, then that’s for Gilbert to know and for Anne to never find out.) 

-

Gilbert gets the call later that week that he has landed the part, Petunia herself dialing in to apologize for passing him over in Toronto. “No hard feelings?” her voice sounds thin and crackly over the connection. 

“No hard feelings,” Gilbert genuinely concurs. 

They celebrate at Art Masala that night, Bash and a heavily pregnant Mary in tow. Preeti takes one look at the expecting couple and immediately angles to become the godmother of their child, heaping food and affection onto Mary’s plate in particular. “So you’ll bring the baby around more often,” Preeti winks, none too subtle. 

It takes one joke and a toothy grin from Bash to win over Preeti for life, thereby creating a monopoly of people who will not bat an eye to Gilbert’s suffering. His only consolation is that Anne becomes his comrade in arms, also on the receiving end of Bash’s wisecracks about their relationship. She colors from a combination of Indian spices and teasing, but withstands the ribbing in relatively good humor. Gilbert squeezes her knee beneath the table and lets it rest there for the majority of the night. In solidarity, of course.

Preeti closes the restaurant early so they can place bets over a game of Satte Pe Satta. Gilbert wins three hands in a row, too many times to be considered beginner’s luck and all of Bash’s pocket change, before his manager accuses him of being a cheat.

“I’m not cheating; it’s called a hustle.” Gilbert waves Bash’s $5 dollar bill in his face, just to rub it in even further. 

Preeti clips Bash over the head a few hands later when she catches him _actually_ cheating, using the back of a spoon to secretly look at Anne’s hand.

His brother calls out for mercy beneath the wrath of Preeti’s knuckles. “Please, I have a family to support!” 

“What is Gilbert paying you, that you would sell your dignity for $7?”

Mary snorts, chiming in. “It’s actually worth less. The $7 is adjusted for inflation.” 

-

And just like that, weeks pass by in the blink of an eye.

Principal filming takes place throughout LA, so Gilbert doesn’t have to split his time between home and somewhere else. Even so, the long hours on set disturb the tenuous routine he develops with Anne, mornings a crapshoot and evenings even more so with retakes. He makes the best out of the situation, using his pent-up frustration as a fuel source for his acting, but nothing is a substitute for the comfort he feels in Anne’s presence.

Since the start of their scheme, this is the longest stretch of time they’ve spent apart: coming up on a week now, and only seeing snatches of each other going in and out of bedrooms. Operating on inverted schedules, being close without overlapping, is infinitely worse than not seeing Anne at all. It is a cruel sort of irony to know that she is there, just two doors down to the left, and yet never cross paths during their waking hours.

Gilbert only just gets back at a quarter past midnight, crawling into bed upon peeling off his dirty t-shirt and jeans. He falls face-first into a pillow, content to let the world burn while he catches up on sleep. _Swan Song_ 's on location tomorrow in Santa Maria, a few hours’ drive away and one he elects to make in the morning rather than heading straight over after work. He sets six back-up alarms starting at 4:45 AM, just in case the other five fail to wake him.

The room is quiet save for the steady hum of central air and a chorus of crickets taking residence outside his balcony. Gilbert is on the verge of slumber when he also hears the sound of his door cracking open. Faint footfalls make their way to the edge of his bed, depressing the springs as a body crawls closer and closer. It could easily be a serial killer or a deranged fan turned stalker, but Gilbert knows through scent alone the exact identity of his intruder. 

Gingerly, he turns to face Anne, trying his best to rub the fatigue from his eyes.

“Sorry to wake you” she whispers softly, like a wing beat against his ears. “I’ve just . . . missed you a lot this week.” The words are sincere, carved out and raw and strung out to dry.

They lay facing each other in the darkness, merely inches apart. Anne is still on top of his sheets, oversized t-shirt riding high on her thighs. He feels their breath commingling in the space between. 

_What would it take to finally close the gap?_ Gilbert wonders, eyes wandering. The cost of his sanity? 

His pupils dilate trying to take in the sight of Anne, horizontal and beautiful and like something out of a dream.

It’s worth it, he decides. Gilbert’s deal with the Devil. 

“Come here," he commands, too tired to resist. His baser instincts call out: for sleep, for comfort, for Anne. 

They get all three when she cautiously bridges the distance, tucking herself into the space between his arms. The tip of Anne’s nose presses into the column of his neck, body flushed head to toe against Gilbert’s own sleep-warm form. He fingers the hair that spills behind her on the pillow, loose and drying and slightly tangled at the ends.

The smell of bananas and bergamot. 

“What time do you have to leave?” Her breath tickles against the shell of his ear. 

“5:20. Maybe sooner.” 

“And when will you be back?”

“I’mnotsure,” it comes out as one word, sandwiched in between the expulsion of a yawn. Gilbert is fading even quicker by the second.

“Can I sleep in here tomorrow then?” 

He pulls Anne in even tighter, pressing _one, two, three_ kisses to the crown of her head. It is both his wildest dream and a ploy to end the conversation, so that Gilbert can finally go to sleep with his love in his arms. “Tomorrow and the next day. You can sleep with me every night, Carrots.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this chapter (and am writing it, still) it somehow turned into 6K+ words of unmitigated fluff. So I've decided to break it up into two with the second half to be posted soon. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, unless you absolutely hate it. In which case, lie and never ever let on that this is the case. I would never recover from it emotionally.


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure I have no idea what the fuck goes down at film festivals or award presentations, so let’s just hand wave over the second half of this update. Otherwise, strap in and enjoy the rest of the ride! 

The 526 balloons that adorn the rooftop of the Marriott Hotel spell out ARNOLD ROSSLYN’S 5TH ANNUAL SUMMER KICKBACK, which arguably would have looked better on a mid-sized banner than taking up valuable real estate across the length of the pool. No panorama is wide enough to capture the slogan in its entirety, so the socialites and Instagram models settle for posing unambiguously between Rosslyn’s name, clout-chasing proving to be a particularly lucrative business. Predictably, the weather more than agrees with a gathering of Hollywood’s upper echelon and elites, their collective tax brackets enough to summon blue skies and a bearable August heat.

The guest list alone totals over 250 people, not including impromptu plus ones and the occasional gate crasher who manages to sweet talk their way in. The kickback’s long since blown past capacity, fully a safety-hazard in waiting, but hotel management won't say a word against the crowd. This event alone rakes in a cool quarter million, all in exchange for half a day’s annoyance and a slap on the wrist from the city fire marshal.

Anne and Gilbert are also in attendance, making their rounds just to generally show face. They stop by to say hi to Rosslyn and Winnie holding court, if only to pass the ceremonial baton over to Hollywood’s newest power couple, before retreating quietly to a cabana by themselves. Winnie is kind enough to make arrangements for a more private set-up amidst the chaos, thoughtful considering that this is one of the last events on Bash and Mary’s itinerary before he and Anne supposedly call it quits. 

The energy between them is longing and tinged with melancholy on the side. Gilbert can’t keep his hands off of Anne, as if this is the last time he'll be able to touch and feel, and is savoring every last inch of her skin before the end. 

The swimming pool of the Marriott spans almost half of the roof, complete with a swim-up bar and little tiki-themed huts around the outside perimeter. Anne and Gilbert are squished side by side on a chaise, a tangle of limbs pressed together from shoulder to thigh. Anne’s head fits perfectly in the crook of Gilbert’s neck, chin resting against his shoulder while her legs slot perpendicular to his own. They observe with passive curiosity the animal house before them, trading comments back and forth in raid-fire repartee. More and more as the summer goes on, they only exist within their own private universe. 

“Did you go to this last year?” Anne questions while taking a sip of her frozen Mai Tai. The drink must be mixed exceptionally strong, given the way she wrinkles her nose after swallowing.

“I think I was in Europe and couldn’t make it.”

“Oh? What for?”

Gilbert wracks his brain, trying to recall. “Shooting a cologne ad for Armani maybe? Or attending the Venice Film Festival. I only remember taking a day off to meet up with Diana.” 

Anne lifts her face so she can look him in the eye, but is unable to see anything past his chin given how close together they're sitting. “I don’t remember reading about that in any of your letters."

Gilbert can’t shrug without disrupting their composition, but manages to give off the illusion that he does in the casual way he responds. “It was deliberate.” 

“What? Why would you do that?”

“I guess . . . because that was the summer Diana and Jerry broke up.” There he goes again, running his mouth. Gilbert knows it is a mistake as soon as he says it aloud.

Anne bolts like lighting from his embrace. She peels away, lifting herself up so that she hovers only inches above his face. The strands of her hair not confined in a bun dangle softly and tickle his cheeks. “Diana and Jerry were dating? _My_ Jerry?” 

Gilbert almost takes affront to Anne referring to anyone that isn’t him as _hers_. But it’s technically true, given that Jerry didn't run in their circle. He existed in a separate sphere, unique to Green Gables. But Gilbert crushes that qualm, defusing the bomb he just dropped the more immediate concern.

“Only for a summer, while Jerry was visiting family in Versailles. It didn’t end well, I don’t think.”

Anne is visibly distressed, eyebrows knitted together. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t _Diana_ tell me?” 

“Because . . .” Gilbert hesitates, not knowing how much damage he is causing or what lines he’s crossed in telling Anne the truth. Diana didn’t swear him to secrecy or anything when they met, but the two parted ways with a tacit understanding of silence. _You don’t tell Anne about Jerry, so I won’t tell Anne about Winnie._ That was the agreement. Even still, now that Anne knows about the latter - “It didn’t feel like my place to say. Back then, or even now.” 

The sun rays feel especially harsh all of a sudden, dipping in the sky at an angle that bypasses the shade of the cabana. 

“It’s too late,” Anne admonishes, laying back down at his side. “You’ve already opened up Pandora’s box.” 

This, he knows: Anne does not take well to secrets. She is showing him mercy, granting him thirty seconds to consider and to collect his thoughts, at least. Given her inability to let anything go, Gilbert reluctantly divulges. “I think she was ashamed.”

“Of Jerry?”

He shakes his head. “Of herself.”

“Explain.” And then, as if she hears the voice of Marilla telling her to _mind your manners_ , Anne adds, “Please.”

“Well it’s not a secret that Jerry’s sweet on her.”

“And?” 

“And I think that Diana was feeling a little homesick and lonely on her own.” He waits for Anne to connect the dots.

But there is an obvious mood shift when she does, and responds, “So because she was lonely, you think Diana latched onto the first thing that reminded her of Avonlea?” The words leave heavily from Anne's tongue, weighted down by some emotion he can’t track or place. Anne’s always been the type to flit from one emotion to the next, thought to thought with non sequiturs in between, while making connections in places that Gilbert cannot follow. It doesn’t feel like they are talking about Diana anymore, but he can’t for the life of him figure out where Anne’s line of thinking has gone. 

Gilbert nods, suddenly unsure if this is the correct thing to do. “That’s just my theory. I could be totally off-base.”

He’s not sure what he’s done to upset her, or if the news about Diana was truly too much of a shock to her system. But they don’t speak for a while after that, watching a disorganized game of water polo play out in front of them with Rosslyn at the helm. Anne purses her lips, contemplative and stormy. He feels uneasy about the silence, deep and pointed as it is, but keeps from going crazy tracing patterns down her spine. Anne shivers, once, when he passes over the line of her bikini strap, but doesn’t stop him or otherwise acknowledge his existence in the least bit.

It isn’t until the start of the second game that she speaks. “No, I think you’re right. Diana didn’t tell me because she thought I would be mad. Or disappointed in her, even.” 

“And are you?” he asks. “Mad or disappointed?”

She takes another minute to deliberate. “I’m not saying I forgive her, but I can understand.” 

“Understand what?”

Anne curls up closer, as if trying to weave the fabric of their beings together through touch. Her lips are pressed adjacent to his pulse, phantom contact that could conceivably be her breath. Bergamot and banana. “What it is to want comfort.”

-

September comes with little fanfare. Anne and Gilbert resume their busy schedules and continue splitting his bed, waking up together often enough that it necessitates Anne moving in half of her things to save time in the morning. The walk down the hallway to her own bedroom, cavernous and empty except for a few of her effects, proves to be too much of a hassle. Gilbert also grows used to looking away while she changes and quietly dealing with his morning wood in the mornings, before she wakes (which happens quite a deal more often, thanks entirely to Anne). 

Their dynamic after the pool party does not change much on its face, but he feels a sense of detachment as the end of their contractual dating period draws closer. It manifests in a coolness during the days when he sees her, conversations perfunctory without its usual touch of whimsy. Anne is more reserved, keeping mostly to herself or disappearing for stretches while visiting Cole up in Valencia. 

Little by little, they are preparing for separation.

Whatever progress they’ve made in disentangling their lives falls apart immediately in the night when their collective defenses are down. They’ll start on opposite ends of the bed in a show of respectability, trading “goodnights” with very little sincerity. Only the barriers they’ve constructed crumble feebly as his arms seek her out after dark, when neither can stand the distance between them any longer. More and more, Gilbert finds that he can’t settle comfortably without her, bearing the brunt of it once during a weekend shoot away. He stares too long at the ceiling of his hotel room before caving and calling Anne, just to listen to the sound of her breathing as they both try and sleep.

Some nights, they talk until the early hours of the morning, until Anne drifts off mid-sentence and Gilbert follows quickly behind. Whatever thoughts they hold back on during the daytime come out endlessly at night; a vulnerability exhibited only in their letters leeching slowly into real life.

Still, they dance around what happens come fall. 

Gilbert wants to think that because they know each other so well, there is simply no need for conversation. That they can know through the beating of hearts and the cadence of breaths what the other is thinking, and that shared silence is an acceptable substitute for words. Love is enough to bridge whatever misunderstandings that arise. But Gilbert is also tired of trying to interpret Anne’s every action, what it means to go to bed with her every night but avoid each other zealously in the mornings. Why she barely acknowledges him unless there is darkness to bring her cover. 

“What are we doing?” he whispers, when Anne inevitably finds him at a quarter to one. He instinctively folds her like a cinnamon roll into his chest, but leaves enough distance so that he can look at her lips when she speaks. 

“Going to bed?” Anne says, but she knows exactly what he means. She’s playing dumb for the sake of avoiding confrontation and under normal circumstances, Gilbert lets her get away with it. But he has finally reached his breaking point and would rather shatter completely than exist in so precarious a balance. This is a reckoning nearly a decade in the making. 

He repeats the question, only firmer this time. It leaves no room for misinterpretation. “What are we doing?”

Anne sighs, breath warm against his chest. “Gilbert, I’m tired. I’ve had a long day at work and I’ve barely seen you all day. Can’t we just sleep and talk about this in the morning?” 

“No, we can’t. I know you Anne. You’ll just slink off in the morning before I’m awake and this cycle repeats until you leave in two weeks. And don’t forget, _you’re_ the one who had an impromptu dinner plans with Cole,” he accuses. “So don’t talk to me about not seeing each other when it’s entirely your own doing.” 

He watches as her temper flares, but can’t be bothered to get out of the crossfire. “Are you picking a fight right now? Because I had dinner with Cole?” 

“You had dinner with Cole to avoid picking a fight. To avoid doing anything with me, really.” Gilbert is too tired to employ the part of his brain that is used to debating Anne. Instead, he speaks to her directly from the heart.

She shoves away from him with as much strength as her tiny arms could muster. “Well sorry I don’t give you a monopoly on my time, Gilbert Blythe! I’ll be sure to accommodate you in every scheduling decision I make from here on out!" Her voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit,” Gilbert hisses, sitting up. Never one to take anything lying down, Anne also rises and settles angrily on her knees, strategically eye-level despite their obvious height difference. It would be cute, if he weren’t so angry. “Just talk to me Anne. What the hell are we doing?” 

“Well according to the contract you made me sign, it seems as if we’re dating.” 

Gilbert scoffs. “Nobody has ever made you do anything you didn’t want to before and that certainly isn’t the case now. _You_ agreed to come out here and live with me and sidestep every obvious neon sign that I’ve been in love with you since middle school. Am in love with you, still.” He knows it and she knows it, so the words might as well come out into the open. 

Anne flushes, glowing red in the sliver of moonlight that leaks in through the windows. “It’s just a crush,” she insists. “You’ll get over it soon . . . like Diana did.” The last part of the sentence is whispered, a measure so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it. It carries with it a deep sadness in Anne, who abruptly can’t face him or even look him in the eye.

In a total reversal, Gilbert is the one who makes Anne Shirley Cuthbert cry. 

“What does Diana have to do with this?” he asks, confused in the face of waterworks like many great men before him, and men that will surely come after. A part of Gilbert wants to end the quarrel now, heart squeezing terribly at the sight of crocodile tears slipping ceaselessly down her cheeks. Anne's arms act like windshield wipers in the midst of a storm, swiping back and forth with little to no success. She is visibly distressed and Gilbert doesn’t know why. 

“Nothing,” Anne wails, dramatic in this as she is in all things. The hiccups start in earnest, undercutting her words. “But- _hiccup_ -also- _hiccup_ -everything- _hiccup_!” 

“Carrots, you’re not making any sense.” 

“Don’t call me that!” she huffs, but visibly deflates. Anne sits back down, legs cushioning her bottom. "At least not when we’re fighting.” 

Gilbert scrubs at his face out of pure desperation. “I don’t want to fight with you, Anne.”

“I don't either. So can we just drop this and go to bed? Please?” Her eyes still glisten with tears. Anne is begging him with every part of her soul.

It is rare for Gilbert to outright deny any of Anne's requests and so he hesitates for a moment, both exhausted and depressed. But all of this, his feelings - they can’t be for nothing. To let this settle between them, unspoken, is to tack another decade onto the board of unrequited love. Whatever momentum Gilbert’s gained this summer, the strides he’s made, culminates into this: his final leap of faith. This is the point of no return. He either moves her, or moves on.

“Anne, I need you to know - ”

“Stop,” she slams two hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear to it.” 

He gently tries to pry them away, to have her _listen_ despite the struggle, but Anne will not cooperate. “Anne, I _love_ you. I have always loved you. You have to know that.” 

“But it’s not the same,” she cries. “It isn’t _real_. You’re only saying that because you’re lonely.”

“I don’t think you’re getting it, I -”

“Save it. Keep it. I don’t want your love.” Anne forcefully pushes away and crawls to the edge of the bed, out of reach. Her face is blotchy with tears, chest heaving in an attempt to settle the sobs. He doesn’t know when the situation spiraled so completely out of control or why bearing his heart has managed to hurt Anne so profoundly.

The will to continue leaves him entirely, drained. 

But for closure, to settle this once and for all, Gilbert asks, “Does that mean that . . . are you saying that - that you don’t love me back?” 

Anne swallows, and he tracks the lump going down the same throat he’s imagined kissing his entire adult life. Her voice is haunting and quiet, words searing permanently into the back of his brain. “I love you Gil, but in a different way.”

A platonic way, she means. God, he’s such an idiot. 

But it is the closure that Gilbert needs to let go.

Thoroughly subdued, he gets out of bed, pulling on a discarded pair of jeans and yesterday’s button-up shirt.

“Where are you going?” Anne calls to Gilbert's retreating back. It is nearly two in the morning and he’s reaching for his keys.

He suddenly can’t handle being in the same room as Anne. It is sweet torture to be close, but to never be together in the ways that he dreams of. Because Anne Shirley Cuthbert does not love him back. 

_I love you Gil, but in a different way_. 

This is the answer to a question he’s been asking since he met her, when she cracked a slate over his head and slipped in that first seed of romance. Gilbert has nurtured it tenderly over the years, waters it despite her absence, but this love ultimately bears him no fruit. His is an orchard that has planted no others. 

“I need space to think,” he explains while pausing at the door. He stares at the empty hallway ahead, beckoning to him in the moonlight, before turning around. He remembers their promise in the hotel room in the beginning. “This doesn’t change anything, Anne. You’re still . . . you’re still my best friend. Just give me some time.”

Gilbert doesn’t wait for a reply. Just walks away and doesn’t look back again.

-

The next few days are frankly unbearable. They tip-toe around each other in the house, skittish like foals, and despite Gilbert’s best attempt at returning to normalcy, he can’t bear to look at Anne for any longer than a minute. Even when everything in his body calls out for her at night, clutching a pillow trying to hold himself together, he still can’t bring himself to breach the barrier of the door. For obvious reasons, they have returned to their previous sleeping arrangements. Gilbert sleeps fitfully, but still manages to sleep. 

Anne allows him a wide berth, respecting his wishes for 1) time and 2) space. But still, he doesn’t understand the way she casts him hurt eyes every time they meet in the kitchen or pass by briefly in the hallway. As if Gilbert is the one who broke her heart. 

Bash and Mary note the change, but deduce without asking that it has something to do with Anne. They’ve already whispered into the mainstream the news about his relationship being on the rocks, unaware of how much this fiction is reflecting Gilbert’s reality. It is one thing to see Anne at home and know that she does not love him back. It is another to walk the streets and see evidence of that plastered on every magazine cover and news article on display. 

Gilbert claims it is out of necessity that he and Anne’s flights are scheduled at separate times. They are attending the last day of a film festival in Toronto before meeting up with the Avonlea crew in Quebec. Gilbert’s got prior commitments to attend to before he’s able to join them, so Anne flies out a day early while Gilbert is scheduled to arrive some few hours before the event.

It comes full-circle in Canada, where he first got Anne’s SOS. The Toronto International Film Festival is second only to Cannes in terms of prestige, and also the scene where Anne and Gilbert will finally call it quits; their last public appearance together, to put a fine point in their fake dating saga. From there, Mary will take over, efficient as ever. A tragic break-up announcement will be hitting the news cycle by Monday.

His flight being delayed puts him at least two hours behind schedule. Bash picks him up at the airport, designer suit draped across the backseat in a garment bag. His stylist Carmen would normally rather die than allow Gilbert to dress himself in the back of a moving vehicle, but is already working double time dressing Anne back at the studio. He does, however, gets a text threatening violence if Gilbert so much as causes a crease.

“The polls are in,” Bash says conversationally from the driver’s seat. “ _Wuthering Heights_ is a shoe-in to win the Grolsch.”

“What does that mean for the Oscars?” Gilbert fumbles around ineffectually with his belt loops, so uncoordinated it feels like threading a needle in the dark.

“Well they don’t call it the starting gun of Awards Season lightly. From here on out, it’s just a rat race to the finish.”

Speaking of finish, “Is Anne at the studio?” He tries to play the question off as nonchalant, but Bash clocks his reaction and responds accordingly. 

“Finishing up hair and makeup, last time I checked. If you could believe it, she’s a lot _quieter_ than usual.”

“Lots on her mind, I’d imagine. Red carpet event and all.” Gilbert doesn’t dare meet his manager’s eye from the rear view mirror, too busy focusing on lining up the buttons of his dress shirt. 

“And it’s nothing to do with the end of your guys’ contractual obligations today?” 

“Not at all,” Gilbert lies through his teeth. “If anything, she’s probably been counting down the days until the end.” 

Bash looks like he wants to say something, but decides wisely against it. There’s no use arguing with Gilbert when he’s in one of his moods and in any case, they’ve reached the driveway of Carmen’s four-story studio. 

There is a flurry of activity when they walk through the door. Anne is nowhere to be found, somewhere in the back being laced into in her dress. Gilbert takes a seat in front of the vanity while three pairs of hands begin laboring on his image. They’re going for a rakish concept and it takes a surprising amount of work to achieve Gilbert’s specific brand of rogue. 

The TIFF is pretty low-pressure in terms of showing out, but he still has to look good if he wants to continue his reign as Best Dressed. Carmen fusses over the suit, tugging at the jacket and straightening out the two creases in the knees. Gilbert doesn’t think he looks that different between one carpet event to the next, but Carmen’s eye discerns even the most inconspicuous of flaws and knows best which lines flatter Gilbert’s physique. The most he can offer is an opinion on the suspenders, which is simply that Gilbert likes them and the way they snap against his chest. 

Once satisfied that his client is up to snuff, Carmen has him stand on a raised platform in front of the 3-way body mirrors.

“Anne honey, are you ready?” Carmen calls, voice echoing throughout the space. 

Gilbert knows what’s coming because he’s been in Hollywood for long enough to predict it. Shot for shot, this is that _Pretty Woman_ scene where the unassuming love interest steps out in a jaw-dropping ball gown. It doesn’t help that Gilbert finds her alluring to begin with, and even steeling himself at the sight of Anne does nothing to mitigate the impacts of her materialization. It is stupid and cliche, what they write in the stories, but looking at Anne feels like falling in love again.

“You look . . . wow," is all that he can manage.

Anne is a vision in green, tight bodice balanced out by puff sleeves and an exaggerated skirt. Her hair is pulled up and out of the way, an ecosystem of braids and curls and pale, delicate flowers scattered whimsically throughout the tresses. A singular pearl sits on a chain around her neck and dips enticingly into the valley between her breasts. Gilbert nearly swallows his tongue when she fully steps out from behind the screen, high heels clicking but partially visible beneath the slit that cuts halfway up her thigh.

Anne is his every fantasy come to life. And like a fantasy, unattainable as well.

She sidles up next to him, close without touching. His heart skips a beat when she meets Gilbert’s gaze through the mirror, who is convinced he might never outgrow the way his pulse pounds at the sight of her.

Carmen coos, “What a gorgeous couple!” while Bash hovers in the back with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Let’s get a move on,” his manager instructs. They’re still running behind and the screening starts in 30.

The squeeze of Anne’s fingers, however, stops Gilbert dead in his tracks.

“Sorry,” Anne whispers, looking down at the floor and at the point where they connect, her ring-encased fingers wrapped gently around his thumb. “I know you said you needed space but I . . . can’t really walk in these shoes.” It was one of Anne’s requests when Carmen first put her in heels. _I’ll only wear these death traps if you can promise I won’t fall._

Gilbert doesn’t pause to consider if this is the right step in the path toward moving on. Just maneuvers his thumb so that they’re palm to palm and properly holding hands. “I’m not going to let you get hurt.” 

Gilbert means it, sincerely. 

He turns to leave, too late to see the resolve in Anne’s eyes. 

-

As far as red carpets go, the Toronto International Film Festival is one that amounts to no pomp and very little circumstance. The press snap a few photos upon arrival, Gilbert gets pulled aside for one or two interviews about _Wuthering Heights,_ and then is free to spend the majority of the time snacking on finger foods between screenings. The hype around his and Anne’s relationship has definitely died down, overshadowed by the shock factor of Arnold Rosslyn’s sudden domesticity.

Winnie and her new boyfriend step out officially as a couple, basking in the spotlight and the publicity that entails. It is like an out of body experience watching the media scrum from the outskirts. Gilbert has the sneaking suspicion she has moved up her timeline to allow his eventual breakup some obscurity.

“There you go again, jumping to conclusions. Can’t a girl do anything just for the attention?” Winnie jokes, but the overly affectionate way she pats his cheek gives away her good intentions. She turns to Anne and they chat idly about dresses, on the road to friendship which could either prove to be a blessing or a curse in Gilbert's case. Meanwhile, Rosslyn tries to flick the football he crafted from the table napkin through Gilbert’s uprights to try and pass the time. The four of them are seated together, waiting on the award ceremony to begin. Gemma passes on attending, weary of crowds for anything less than the Academy. But Oliver Osmond is expected to accept the award in her stead, sitting one table over and already rehearsing his speech. 

The lights in the theater ficker around two minutes to show time, indicating for guests to either head or return to their seats. Everyone turns their attention to the two co-hosts on stage, flipping through cue cards and waiting for a signal to start. Award ceremonies are only glamorous to the people at home, subject to the gimmicks of editing and TV magic. 

“My sources say that you’ve got this in the bag,” Rosslyn grins, stretching a meaty arm around the back of Winnie’s chair. 

This turns out to be true, after three hours of build-up and _Wuthering Heights_ is announced the People’s Choice. 

The grand hall is triumphant, an eruption of applause either celebrating the win or the fact that the event is finally over. Gilbert’s pulled into hugs from a million different directions, enough pats on the back and handshakes to last a lifetime. He and Anne hug, briefly, in the chaos of it all. 

“HELL YA FUCKING RIGHT!” Rosslyn pumps his fist in true Rocky fashion. They can scarcely hear a thing over the commotion all around, clamors for Oliver to go up and give words. The in-house cameras circle like sharks in the water, a loop that projects their images onto the giant screens by the stage. Rosslyn smacks a big, wet kiss onto Winnie’s painted cheek and looks at Anne to do the same. “Victory kiss?” he prompts while waggling his bushy eyebrows. 

Gilbert shakes his head, ready to disabuse his friend of the notion that he and Anne are the type to engage in public displays when he feels two steady hands grabbing a hold of his lapel. Anne is suddenly closer than she’s been in over a week, a shock to his system that can’t perceive anything outside of her red hair and a particularly adorable freckle.

Gilbert sees her before he hears her, the whisper of his name sending shivers down his spine. Even in heels, she has to strain on tip-toes up to reach. The kiss is quick and chaste, appropriately congratulatory more than anything borne of passion. And yet it manages to set his every nerve ending on fire.

Dazedly, his lips remained puckered even after she retreats, automatically trailing after Anne in pursuit of another kiss. 

Rosslyn whoops and the moment shatters. The room, the people, and the present come flooding back into his consciousness. 

Gilbert clears his throat and tries to play it cool. But still, he savors the taste of cherry lip gloss on his tongue.

-

His euphoria lasts as long as it takes to realize that that is the first and last kiss he will ever receive from Anne. 

_I love you Gil, but in a different way_. 

His heart clenches painfully at the memory. And while he wouldn’t say he was doing well up until now, Gilbert could at least take comfort in the fact that he was making more headway in getting over Anne than in all of his previous attempts combined. But this singular kiss has set back his progress by _years_. Wiped away in the span of time it takes to flip a light switch.

It isn’t fair that Anne can kiss him and continue on as usual. Like nothing ever happened, sipping calmly on champagne. Especially when Gilbert is right next to her, ready to vibrate out of his skin.

He asked for space and clearly defined his boundaries. Gilbert could excuse the hand holding as a safety precaution and their hug as something any friend would give in the aftermath of victory. But the kiss was deliberate, unnecessary, and cruel. Anne isn’t wicked, but she is often very careless. Only this time, Gilbert is not sure he can indulge her any longer.

Part way through Oliver’s speech, Gilbert excuses himself from the table. “Bathroom,” he grunts in a cold, detached manner. His tone of voice causes Winnie to look up. She notes the thunderous expression on his face, concerned, but doesn’t stop him from leaving in a nondescript huff. 

Gilbert walks fast and without purposeful direction, feet bearing him away from the theater and its suddenly oppressive environment. Even though he doesn’t have the energy to unpack the full implications of Anne’s kiss, he is equally unable to ignore it’s impact on his psyche as well. The scrutiny of so many eyes is too hard to bear, in tandem with having to act as if he’s fine when he can barely think straight as it is. 

To make matters worse, there is a small crowd of people coming back from a smoke break, rounding the corner and coming in hot in his direction.

Thinking quick, Gilbert veers off into an empty screening room to his left, barely large enough to fit more than 50 bodies in the space.

The playhouse is dark save for the projector light in the back, a myriad of colors to showcase the full effect of the Aurora. Gilbert takes a seat in the front row by the stage, the shadow of his body disrupting the dreamy images as he settles. The documentary couldn’t have let out all too long ago because the seat he occupies still retains some lingering remnants of warmth.

In the silence, Gilbert considers releasing a scream. Rubs in futile at his dry, bloodshot eyes. This is probably the crummiest he’s ever felt, barring his father’s funeral and becoming the last Blythe alive.

Gilbert isn’t alone for long though when Anne appears from seemingly out of nowhere. She must have followed immediately after he left, hampered in speed by her ridiculously high heels. He also sees the sheen of sweat on her forehead from trying to keep up. 

“Are you mad because I kissed you?” There is genuine concern in her voice, but also humor as well. It feels as if she's laughing at him. Gilbert recoils at her touch.

“You shouldn’t have kissed me, Anne. Not if you don’t mean it.” His voice breaks, bitter. 

The same humor in her question is now reflected on her face. “Mean it? How should I mean it?” She says it guilelessly, like she is indulging a child in conversation. It effectively raises his hackles; makes Gilbert see red.

“You shouldn't have done it,” he contends, even if he's just as guilty for kissing her back. The escalation of his rage propels Gilbert to stand. He is almost blinded by the projector lights shining directly in his eyes. “You know how I feel about you. _The world_ knows how I feel about you.” 

Like the build-up to their last argument, Anne stands up to meet him. “Do I now?” she seethes, gripping both hands by her side. The Aurora Borealis ripples against the canvas of her face, yellows and greens and the red of Anne's hair. “Because up until a week ago, you’ve certainly never mentioned it— only left me to read your mind or try to guess what every slant of your eyebrows could possibly mean.” 

“Anne-” he starts, but doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Evidentally, she isn't finished.

It takes him by surprise when she transfers her weight to the tips of her toes, surging upwards to press pink, greedy lips to his own. The pressure Anne applies feels tailor-made to his taste, alternating between soft and hard with nips at his bottom lip in between. Gilbert’s temporarily stunned, a glorified receptacle for seven heavenly seconds, before he regains enough function to enthusiastically return the exchange. One arm snakes instinctively around Anne's waist while the other migrates north to bunch at the curls behind her head. The two lock lips until he starts to see stars.

Anne separates first, flushed and pleased. “Did I mean it that time?” she asks cheekily, her earlier humor making a comeback.

Gilbert opens his mouth to respond, but she lunges to apply the most blissful of pressure again. “And that one? How about that one?” 

“Anne _mmpfh_ -"

She pulls him into another kiss that suctions and finally separates in a _sm_ _ack_. “What about that time? Do you think I meant it then?”

Gilbert pushes away, which is the last thing he ever expected to do in the face of his current predicament. “I can't answer the question if you keep interrupting me with kisses."

The sound of her laugh is like rain during a drought. She grasps his face between the palms of her hand, forcing his eyes to gaze into her own. “Gilbert Blythe, I love you, you big idiot. Every touch, every word, every moment—I meant it every time.”

Anne kisses him again, and not for the first or last time either; tender and soft, with no real sense of urgency. They sway without music to projections of the Aurora. 

Of all the kisses in their lifetime, this is the one that Gilbert likes best. The one he unpacks and revisits time and time again.

The one where he knows unequivocally that she loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said “soon” and then proceeded to post like four days later. But in my defense, three days (and some change) may as well be lightspeed for me. Plus, I gave you guys smooches so what more do you want from me!!!!!!
> 
> Also, sorry that Gilbert spends the majority of this chapter sad. To be honest, I don’t know where the argument scene came from because it sure as hell was not in the outline I made and shocked me just as much to write as it might have shocked you to read. I truly thought there’d be nothing but rainbows and butterflies until the end, but I guess there had to be some conflict right? 
> 
> “A sprinkle of angst to cut the fluff, to make the final product that much sweeter” - Gordon Ramsey, probably. 
> 
> I might take a little longer to write the wrap up, given that this story is my BABY and I’m sad to see it go. I took such a long break from writing before joining this fandom, but y’all have been so kind and supportive that it warms my little heart. Thank you for all of your nice comments and kudos. I cherish them always.


	11. eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize _to myself_ for the amount of cavities this gave me. 
> 
> CW: There is some sexual content in the second and fifth chapter breaks, which I’ve marked with a * during the beginning and ends. I had to change the rating because I was toeing the line pretty recklessly before saying FUCK IT and committed to writing smut. Apologies if you were expecting a virtuous end for these idiots, but for my own sanity and well-being I needed to have them Bone. 

“How long?” Gilbert breathes against her lips, soft and unreal. It isn’t a fully formed question and he’s not sure how well it flows in conversation with Anne’s earlier confession, but it is the question that holds the most importance in his heart. It validates his every suspicion and slays his every dragon. 

“A long time,” she says simply, angling briefly for another peck. “Always.”

This gives Gilbert pause, even as a sense of euphoria he’s never felt sweeps through and ruptures every cell in his body. He’s waited so long to hear those words, imagined so many variations of it, and yet . . . “How come you never said anything?” his eyebrows knit in confusion. “And when I asked, after my father’s funeral, if you felt the same—you said no.”

Anne pulls back, if only to level him a stare. “Gilbert, you never asked. You _assumed._ ”

“But you never corrected me!” 

He senses that the time for kissing is over (or rather, postponed, because he fully plans on picking this up again later). Anne sits and he sits and they both sit facing each other, the silence of the theater a buffer against the chaos outside as guests start emptying out in droves from the event. They have maybe 20 minutes, tops, before security does a sweep of the venue and start kicking people out, but something about this moment feels fraught, like walking a tightrope on which they can’t afford to break focus, staring down at the abyss.

She takes his hand in her own, slotting their fingers together just to feel even marginally closer. The armrests act as a barrier between their bodies, an almost willful act against the temptation of flesh that prevents them from talking. Gilbert still has half a mind to take her back to their hotel room, clarification be damned, because they have all the time in the world to talk but so little of which to spend in each other’s arms. “It was too late, at that point. By the time I realized what you were trying to say, you were already on the plane halfway to California.”

“I would’ve come back,” he tells her with certainty. “If you had just given me a sign, any indication at all that there was a chance for us— I would’ve done it for you, Anne-girl.” 

“Moving to California and launching your career - those were the right things to do _for you_. We were just kids back then. And your dad had just died. I couldn’t keep you in Avonlea and you would’ve resented me if I’d asked.” Upon seeing the resistance in his eyes, she quickly amends the statement. “Maybe not immediately. But what about 10 years down the road? Or 20? Would you have been happy as a country doctor? Or minding your family’s orchard every season?” 

Gilbert shakes his head, only because it is not as much a gotcha statement as Anne believes. “Yes, I would have been happy. I would have had _you ._ ” She is the fondest object of his affection and his desire. That hasn’t changed throughout the years, including the ones they spent apart. 

Anne rolls her eyes, but can’t hide the misty quality they’ve taken on. “Well thanks to me, you get to have your cake and eat it, too.” 

It is only a subtle reminder that she feels the same way, but the thrill of knowing his feelings are returned is enough to send Gilbert into orbit. How wonderful of his excellent, lovely Anne-girl to give them the perfect segue to continue making out like teenagers? But try as Gilbert’s body might to get them back to that point, a few nagging doubts hold the whole thing back. “It really sucked, you know.” He’s not sure how to convey the extent of his hurt, past and present, that not even Anne’s confession could assuage. “Trying to move on and believing you didn’t love me.”

He thinks she might argue, being the contrarian that she is. But Anne surprisingly agrees, an expression of guilt stealing plain across her face. “Noble idiocy doesn’t really suit me, does it? Even though it’s always so romantic in the books.” She giggles despite the gravity of the topic. “I also wasn’t very good at it, seeing as how I caved and sent you that letter six months in.” 

“You mean that first letter was supposed to be a sign?” He racks his brain trying to think of any hint she may have given to suggest it was anything other than a friendly check-in on her end.

“It was . . . a moment of weakness, if I’m being honest. You know how my imagination gets,” Anne laments. “I was working myself up, picturing you off waltzing with beautiful, dignified starlets and socialites. I didn’t want you to forget me, far away as I was, at the same time I knew you wouldn’t be coming back to me ever. So I compromised and wrote a letter. If it got to you by the grace of God and the U.S. Postal Service, then I would allow myself that little indulgence at least.”

“And if it didn’t? If something had gone horribly wrong and I never received it? Would we just have never crossed paths again?” He only opened his big mouth during that interview on account of their letters. More than anything else, they are the catalyst to this affair. 

“You would have been fine,” Anne says almost to herself, in a way that suggests that she wouldn’t have been. And maybe it is how she seems to shrink into her seat, face turned against him, or the resigned acceptance in Anne’s eyes. But Gilbert thinks he understands why she turned him down the other night. The passive way she accepts his affection without ever once internalizing it. 

“You don’t think you’re good enough. Or that I could love you genuinely.” The realization hits him. It makes total sense when Gilbert says it aloud. “But why?” 

Anne is uncharacteristically quiet, trying to collect her thoughts rather than dump them on him all at once. He can’t hear anything above the steady whirr of the projector and dulled voices drifting in from outside the theater. “I loved Matthew” she begins, “and I love Marilla. I have a wonderful life and even more wonderful friends. But for as much as I love and am loved in return, it may never be enough for me to shake off the cloak of being the unwanted orphan girl.” Anne swallows, thick. “And can you blame me for being insecure? When you were a star all throughout high school and went on to become one to the world as well? I figured it was only a matter of time before you chalked your feelings up as just a simple schoolyard crush.”

“Anne-” he tries to interrupt her, with little success.

She merely rattles on, desperate to get these thoughts and feelings off her chest. “And _Diana_! What you told me about Diana really got into my head, wondering if everything that’s happened was just a figment of your loneliness. If you also latched on because I reminded you of home.” 

“Anne, _you_ are my home.” He doesn’t pause for long enough to consider how banal he sounds when the statement is saturated in such honesty. Gilbert will go to any length or dive to any depth to prove to Anne the full extent of his sentiment, if only to make up for all the times he thought he was being obvious but wasn't actually. “In all of the years before becoming famous and all of the years since, I have loved you for practically half of my life. I suspect that I’ll love you until the day that I die.” 

“How can you be so sure that what you feel for me is love? What if this is just some habit, like brushing your teeth, that you’re mistaking for love?”

“You’re getting too caught up in the semantics, Anne. There isn’t that much of a difference. I love you out of habit because at one point, I made the active choice to love you. Practiced it every day until it became second-nature.”

“But you can unlearn a habit,” Anne points out, trying to poke holes in his logic. 

“Would you rather be referred to as a compulsion I can’t control?” 

“Everything sounds romantic when it’s coming from you.” 

Gilbert holds a stray lock of her hair between his fingers, fans out the strands to admire their hue. He kisses it, softly, and tucks it neatly behind her ear. “This doesn’t have to be so complicated, Carrots. You can just take my feelings at face value.”

Anne wrinkles her nose. “Says the actor,” she quips, but there is no bite in her voice. 

The two of them rise out of their chairs and head towards the exit, hand in hand as Anne looks up and whispers.

“I’m sorry I was confused before.” 

“But you’re not anymore?”

She shakes her head, fluttering loose a few flower petals in her wake. “I love you,” she says, because he can’t hear it enough.

-

All pretenses of propriety are shattered when Anne leads him back to her hotel room and gets straight down to business.

 ***** Gilbert undresses her slowly, white-knuckling his way through the intricate ribboning of the gown at her back. Anne holds her hair up and out of the way, accentuating the curve of her neck and how it melts into the divot between her milky shoulders blades. His fingernails feel raw from trying to pick at two or three particularly stubborn knots while Anne stands patient, still as a statue except for when his frustrated breath blows hot against her spine and she releases an involuntary shiver, pebbling slightly against the fabric. 

This could be a prelude for something, the beginning notes of a song they’ll come together for until morning, or it could not.

He loosens the last strand of her dress and watches as the green silk drops and pools around their feet. Anne side-steps neatly out of the pile, chipped toenails flashing in the amber glow of the lamp light. She turns around to face him wearing next to nothing except her underwear, bared and nervous but straightening out her posture, all the better for him to admire. Feeling cheated, Anne’s clever fingers make quick work of Gilbert’s tie, Windsor knot be damned, until Gilbert is tic for tac as bare as she is, her like and equal in all things but especially in this.

Neither of them moves for a while, drinking in the sight of each other with slow, bated breaths. Anne is more beautiful than anything his imagination could have ever conjured up, vulnerable and lovely and somehow bolder in her nudity. She leads him by hand to the hotel bed, walking in reverse until the back of her knees hit the mattress. Gravity pulls him down on top of her so they are nothing more than a tangle of lips and limbs. Touch-starved, they fall back into old habits and develop new ones along the way. He _finally_ gets his mouth onto that patch of freckles nestled the crook of Anne’s neck, slightly salty against the flat swipe of his tongue. Gilbert is too old to be giving anyone hickies, but he’s sorely tempted to put a mark on Anne, multiple if she'd let him.

Anne moans at the ministrations, which only encourages him further.

As if reading his mind and disapproving of his endeavors, she pulls Gilbert's head back and redirects his lips. The force of her passion is all-encompassing and complete. Her tongue licks greedily every inch of his mouth, hot and heavy before gradually melting into something slower. Sleepy pecks in between languid kisses, a growing friction that heats Gilbert steadily from the inside out. Anne slots one of his thighs between her legs while one palm reaches beneath the waistband of his briefs. Gilbert can’t do much else other than press open-mouthed kisses to whatever surface of her body he can reach. Soft and unhurried, they fumble collectively towards ecstasy. *****

-

Quebec has been planned and on the books for a month, but despite Gilbert’s excitement for meeting up with everyone else again, he is equally reluctant to leave the comforts of bed and Anne’s sleep-warm embrace. He is the first between them to rise at nearly half past nine, cutting it close to the time they are supposed to leave for the airport. Anne is still dreaming, smiling softly in her sleep. Gilbert hasn’t the heart to wake her, seeing the way her eyelids flutter in her late-stage REM.

Instead, Gilbert carefully extracts himself from their burrowed position, surveying the room and determining a game plan for packing and cleaning. He is especially pleased to see the mess of clothing they’d left in a trail leading to the bedroom, proud despite the fact that Anne took most of the initiative last night. He followed along passively, like a moke, still surprised that any of it was actually happening but thankful for the fact that he must be one of God’s favorites. 

Gilbert practically floats around the room, dumb grin on his face and fighting the urge to hum so as to not disturb Anne’s slumber. He is mostly already packed having only spent the night in Toronto, but Anne’s a little more lived-in and prone to being messy on top of that. Her belongings are scattered all throughout the room with little rhyme or reason as to how they ended up there in the first place. He buzzes from corner to corner, collecting her things and bundling them away. Gilbert’s seen Anne naked _,_ but is still somehow nervous about potentially overstepping a boundary. Something about packing up for each other, the domesticity and familiarity of it all, feels exponentially more intimate than anything he could have possibly prepared for.

Anne doesn’t seem to mind though when she stumbles sleepily into the bathroom. She presses a kiss between his shoulder blades and thanks him for cleaning up, eyes half-closed while she makes a grab for her toothbrush. Gilbert likes the look of them together, side by side in the mirror, and doing something so mundane as getting ready for the day. Normally, the Morning After is always the worst part of sex. Of course, Gilbert's experience is limited almost exclusively to disastrous one-night stands. 

But it is in the security of knowing their mutual devotion that prevents anything from feeling awkward. He still feels a flutter of nervousness as is typical to new relationships, but they’ve loved each other for so long it doesn’t hold the same layer of uncertainty. Their affection is no longer performative, but singularly real and assured. They don’t need the excuse of an audience if Anne wants to hold his hand in public or if Gilbert "accidentally" crowds her up against the sink getting dressed to swirl away the smell of spearmint from her mouth. 

Diana is the first notice something’s up when they touch down at Montréal–Trudeau. She is waiting at baggage claim with the rest of the group, having flown in from Paris to meet them only an hour ago. Moody immediately envelopes Gilbert into a hug while the girls hover excitedly around Anne, peppering her with questions about work and life in L.A. 

Diana hangs back, ostensibly waiting for an opening to greet Anne more privately, but is afforded the full view of the couple’s close approximation and the way they seem to orbit each other despite the absolute chaos that surrounds them. It isn’t much different outside of the usual way they circled each other in school, but if Gilbert can feel the electricity from three feet away then surely perceptive Diana would be able to see it crackling between them. 

He notes the way she narrows her eyes in his direction, lifting one eyebrow in lieu of a proper greeting. Gilbert acknowledges her with a head nod, but isn’t sure in which way the raven-haired beauty interprets the salute.

Jane eventually rounds them up and piles them all into her van, essentially on top of each other to accommodate the three extra bodies. There is a distinct lived-in feel to the interior considering the Avonlea crew road-tripped it from Charlottetown to Montréal, all 11 hours spent bickering over which podcasts to tune into and poking fun at Moody for his various bodily functions. There’s still 85 miles and another two hours to go before they reach their destination outside of Lac Archambault, but spirits are higher upon finally reuniting. 

Jane and Tillie sit up front, Moody, Ruby and Josie in the middle, while Gilbert, Anne, and Diana squish uncomfortably in the back. Anne is practically on his lap to give Diana more room, which he doesn’t mind except for when Jane inevitably hits a pothole and Gilbert’s forced to think of something embarrassing to keep from getting too excited on his own. Wicked Anne doesn’t help, the way she wiggles her bottom in an attempt to get comfortable, skirting the line between innocent and deliberate. Diana rolls her eyes, but takes advantage of the extra legroom. 

Tillie organized the trip a month ago after Josie mentioned something about her family owning a timeshare up near Mont-Tremblant. The chalet is big enough to accommodate their group of eight and the timing could not be more perfect given the end of summer, Diana’s semi-permanent return to North America, and Gilbert’s auspicious golden birthday coming up on the horizon. Tillie handwaves over the fact that his 23rd isn’t until the end of the month, claiming that he’s “being too literal” and should know better by now that “good things always come in groups of three.” 

For the majority of the car ride, Anne regales them with stories: from her adventures with Cole to navigating the paparazzi on staged dates with Gil. 

“What’s going on with you two anyway?” Josie demands, twisting around to see them snuggled up cozily. “I thought this was all an act for the press?” 

“What do you mean?” Anne plays dumb, blushing at the way everyone’s ears perk up around them. Gilbert is also curious, given their preoccupation with . . . other things last night to fully discuss the implications of a long-term relationship. 

Impatiently, Josie snaps, “Are you two dating for real now or what?”

Gilbert presses his smile, dopey and wide, into the back of Anne’s shoulder while allowing the redhead tackle this particular line of questioning. 

“Gilbert and I have decided to extend the terms of our dating agreement indefinitely, yes.”

The minivan practically bursts with excitement. 

“Oh how exciting!” Ruby and Tillie titter, clapping their hands together in glee. 

He makes eye contact with Jane through the rear-view mirror, two hands affixed to the steering wheel for safety but is no doubt pumping them victoriously in her mind. "I fucking called it, did I not?" 

Moody non-discreetly slips Josie a fiver across the aisle.

“And when exactly did you decide to renegotiate this contract?” Diana questions, probably offended, as Anne’s best friend, to have found out about this information at the same time as everyone else.

“Yesterday” Anne answers at the same time Gilbert chimes in “Last night!” 

Something about the implication of night-time and the way Gilbert can’t contain his delight clues everyone into the sort of ‘renegotiations’ going on between the two of them. Anne is rightfully mortified, but Gilbert can’t seem to care less. The burst of serotonin he gets from remembering last night would be enough to last a lifetime. 

“And this couldn’t have happened sooner?” Moody intones, clearly happy for them but compelled to hand over to Josie another $5 bill. 

Diana laughs, throwing back a curtain of inky curls. All is forgiven, then; she can’t begrudge Anne for not telling her about such a newfound development. “Probably not. I assume you two were being dumb about the whole thing until the end.” 

Gilbert snakes both arms around Anne’s waist in an embrace. She splays her hands across the junction, affectionate in kind. “We got there eventually, didn’t we?” he replies. 

-

The gang’s attempt to start a fire is miserable, at best. Moody fruitlessly rubs two sticks together for half an hour before Jane pulls up a YouTube tutorial and attempts to follow along. They all argue and take turns minding the empty pit, but in the end it is Anne who uncovers a stack of dry firewood in the garage that gets a small blaze going. 

“Hurrah!” Moody shouts, immediately repurposing one of his useless starter sticks as a marshmallow skewer for him and Ruby.

“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” Diana points out, curled up next to Anne on the outdoor sofa. The two have been attached to the hip since they pulled up to the chalet yesterday afternoon, whispering secrets just out of range of his hearing. The tips of his ears burn, no doubt the subject of many a conversation. 

Gilbert conjectures aloud that it’s less meat for him to grill, slicking away sweat with the back of his wrist. Process of elimination has rendered him stuck with barbecue duties, because out of everyone Gilbert’s the least likely to let things burn to a crisp. Gilbert also doesn’t mind taking a backseat to the festivities, content to hang back and observe small pockets of happiness in his friends as they lay out by the lake, play a half-hearted game of badminton, or (in Anne’s case) scale up the side of a tree in order to return a baby bird to its nest. 

Jane appears to grab the tongs from his hand, indicating kindly that she can take it from there. “Do you feel like Cinderella because we’re making you grill the meat for your own party?”

“I’m being responsible and making sure no one gets _food poisoning_ at my party.” Gilbert tries to retrieve the utensil, but the tall brunette holds it firmly behind her back. 

“You’ve already done the hard part and I’m sure I can handle not starting a forest fire via patties. Now please accept this favor and go relax or something, Birthday Boy.”

Gilbert’s uncertain, but finally relents when Jane exaggeratedly pantomimes the act of grilling hotdogs and burgers in demonstration of her skills. He takes a seat next to Tillie, who idly challenges him to a game of Battleship laid out on the side table near them.

The evening sunset leaves behind a sticky warmth in farewell. All manner of creatures begin to make themselves known, fireflies dotting the darkening backdrop as they dance along to a harmony of crickets and frogs and nocturnal warblers. Out in nature, he is even able to make out the appearance of stars. 

Everyone gathers close around the fire, to see and carry out side conversations when they’re not collectively reminiscing. Josie brings out the beer and champagne, four bottles of hard liquor with only club soda as a mixer. Anne follows closely behind, cake in hand with 23 lit candles fighting for dominance over three lopsided tiers’ worth of surface area. The glow of her face behind the flames - eyes bright and full of promise, lips curved in a smile reserved only for him - is every wish that Gilbert has ever made come true. 

They all come together for a roaring rendition of “Happy Birthday To You”, loud and clear enough to be heard from across the other side of the lake. Anne FaceTimes Bash and Mary, who join in after Moody calls for an encore and the performance continues. Gilbert, who is never sure what to do in situations like these, jokingly settles for maestro-conducting the ear-splitting production; all the while, wearing an ear to ear grin that shows no signs of dimming. Gilbert cannot recall the last time he has ever felt this indescribably happy.

The song ends in a failed attempt to harmonize, Moody’s baritone turning into a breathy groan while Tillie does her best impression of a kettle. There is no time to dwell on the absurdity of it all before there are rousing choruses of “Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!” 

“Alright, alright,” he cheerfully acquiesces. Gilbert stands and raises a glass, looks to the faces of his friends and loved ones and scrambles to find the words to say. “Twenty three revolutions around the sun and it’s crazy to think of how many of them I’ve spent with you all in particular. I’ve never been one to mark the passage of time, but only know that it’s passing when I see the way we’ve changed. I know _I’ve_ certainly changed, and I’m grateful for the way you’ve all stuck around despite that and for the laughs and experiences we’ve shared throughout the years. And now,” he downs the rest of his drink in one swift swallow, “we rage!” 

In true Avonlea celebration, they all get absolutely smashed. Gilbert forgets the sheer amount of alcohol they are able to consume and yet still remain standing, including bitty Ruby who holds her liquor twice as well as anyone he knows and could probably outdrink all of the party animals who’ve made a career of it in Hollywood. They play every variation of party games from musical chairs to a few drunken rounds of Red Rover. Josie specifically bars him from playing Vodka Roulette, citing his profession as grounds for exclusion because no matter how old they get, she will always play the mean girl. “You’re an _actor_ so it’s _cheating_!” she claims, to overwhelming endorsements from all except Anne. “And you’re his girlfriend so your objections don’t count.”

Gilbert is tickled by how this is the first time anyone’s ever referred to Anne as his girlfriend and have the statement actually ring true. Unable to help it, he yells “Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is my girlfriend!” to the sky and the moon.

“Oh shove it,” Jane protests, crushing her red solo cup underfoot. “You two are so disgustingly gross and in love.”

Tillie nods, brown curls bobbing as she points a finger in accusation. “If I catch one of them making googly eyes at the other _one more time_ , I’m redownloading Tinder.” 

“Just be thankful we’ve moved past all of the obvious yearning.” This coming from Ruby, who is absolutely the last person who should be talking. Apparently, being in a relationship with Moody has suddenly made her above board now. 

“It wasn’t obvious.” He’s offended, perhaps unforgivably so. Gilbert is a seasoned actor who knows how to conceal even the most minute of expressions, to completely dissolve himself of any emotions outside of the ones he chooses to portray on screen.

Jane rolls her eyes. “It was so obvious, my idiot brother noticed and gave a tell-all about it.” 

To that end, Gilbert has nothing clever to refute.

-

The festivities continue until well past 2 AM, at which point they begin to drop off like flies one by one. Some have enough presence of mind to return back to their rooms, while others (Jane and Josie) collapse on top of each other upon reaching the first available carpeted surface inside. Gilbert helps carry Diana back to her and Anne’s quarters, carefully depositing her onto the left side of the bed. Anne walks him out, where Gilbert lingers miserably by the door. 

“Can you sneak out tonight?” he whispers, not even trying to curtail his pout. Gilbert spent last night without her, wanting to give the two bosom friends the space to reconnect. But more than 24 hours without Anne feels something akin to a drought. 

“I’ll try.” She manages to give him a brief peck goodnight, before Diana’s uncharacteristic warble draws her back to their shared bed.

There’s no use in lingering, so Gilbert turns and makes the trek to his own room at the very end of the hall. Curiously, he sees his bedside table lamp leaking light beneath the door. He almost expects to find someone poking around his belongings, an intruder of some kind or Moody mistakenly claiming his room. But the first thing his eye is drawn to is the gift atop his bed, small and square and unassumingly packaged. Brown paper and twine with a sprig of dried wheat for decoration. On top of that lays a white envelope written in Anne’s perfect, cursive script.

He is hesitant to rip open his present, careful as Anne must have been in packaging the gift. But revealed beneath the coverings is a canvas of speckled black and pink. A Hollwood Star with Gilbert’s name in the center.

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Happy Birthday! (Even if it’s not quite your real birthday just yet.)_

_If you are reading this letter, then that means you have seen the atrocious gift that I’ve painted but still fully expect you to hang up on your fridge. I’ve spent the last few weekends with Cole trying to perfect my technique and although I am clearly the next Rosa Bonheur, I still think the depth and shading leave something to be desired. Ignore it and just know that I’ve dutifully tried my best. Truthfully, I will be disappointed if this gift becomes anything less than your future family heirloom._

_Upon further reflection though, the painting doesn’t have to be perfect. This is only a placeholder for your very real, future Star (because I know in my heart of hearts that you’ll receive one someday). You are a force to be reckoned with, Gilbert Blythe, and I am so incredibly proud to both know you and love you._

_These words: I love you —Consider them to be the second part of your gift, I suppose. _

_I know you feel like the scales are unbalanced and that you love me more than I could ever possibly hope to return. You probably keep tabs in your head of the times you’ve made your feelings apparent without any indication on my part that I’ve ever felt the same. Truthfully, you may be correct if we’re talking in terms of verbal confessions. By my count, you are up four declarations to one. (Although all four instances are circumspect, at best. You never actually said the words aloud after your father’s funeral, the second and third times you were drunk and said my name accidentally, respectively. The fourth time you told me, we fought bitterly for a week. If anything, I should be above you if we are to consider success rate.) But regardless of how many times you’ve expressed the sentiment, it should also be noted the amount of times I’ve told you silently as well. Or all the times my love has gone unnoticed and unseen._

_I whisper it to you every morning when we wake and every night before sleep, for all the times you hold me or take the outside shoulder on sidewalks. I love you when we’re sharing meals and even more so when we spend them apart, when you text until I answer just to ask me if I’ve eaten. I think it when we’re watching hockey and you yell as if the players can hear you, when you take my hand and we run just to get away from the crowd. I know it when you call me Anne-girl and Carrots and when you don't call me at all, preferring to exchange all of our most intimate thoughts over letters. I_ _mix it into every cup of coffee you drink and exchange it for every french fry I’ve ever stolen off your plate. I breathe it against your lips for every kiss that we’ve shared._

_Gilbert, you are every word of every poem I’ve ever written and the subject of ones I have still yet to pen. To write what I know is to only ever write about you._

_I don’t know what the rest of September holds or what the future looks like beyond sharing our bed at night. But I know, and have known for a while now, that you are it for me Gilbert Blythe. You are my Happily Ever After (even if it means working through disagreements and miscommunications until the day that we die!)_

_I love you,_ _I love you_ _, and I can never say it enough._

_Happy Birthday, my love._

_Yours always,_

_Anne Shirley-Cuthbert._

_P.S. I hope this letter gets to you. All of the other ones I’ve written this summer are sitting unopened in your mailbox._

Gilbert sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees as he re-reads the letter perhaps ten additional times. Pours over the words as if he could consume them wholly like water.

Anne has great timing when she slips into the room during his eleventh read through, when Gilbert’s heart begins to throb and he feels weighed down with the syrup that flows through his veins. She doesn’t say anything when she sees the paper in his hand, just sits down next to him and rests her head on his shoulder. They stare out the window that most directly faces the lake, the half-moon, and stars.

“Is Diana asleep?” he asks, not trusting his voice. 

Anne hums in confirmation. “I left as soon as her eyes closed and her breathing evened out.” Delicately, she weaves their hands together and sighs. “Do you _have_ to go back to California tomorrow?”

“Duty calls.” He kisses the top of Anne’s forehead. Everyone else is staying an extra day in Mont-Tremblant and even though her internship doesn’t end until Wednesday, this is the last they’ll see each other before Gilbert leaves for reshoots in Santa Maria. After that, Anne has to go back to Queens for another two years. Even more, if she decides to pursue her Masters in Education.

“Are you going to miss me?” she asks, tilting her face to press honeyed lips against his chin. Gilbert angles his own so that their mouths automatically connect, greedy and insistent and also slightly sad. He misses her even as she’s sitting right beside him.

 ***** Anne swings around so that she straddles his lap, heat pressed against him in a way that begs for release. His fingers find purchase on her waist and her ass, pressing indentations against the frame of Anne’s ribcage.

They kiss and kiss until Gilbert can no longer breathe and even still, he manages to find some oxygen stored deep in reserves. She only disengages to shimmy quickly out of her chemise, tossing it aside because it serves no purpose in this moment. He moves shed to some of his own clothes, and laughs at her whining when he isn’t as quick to follow suit. Anne returns to her seated position soon enough and swirls her hips against him in impatience, sending waves of molten lava down to what feels like his last remaining organ.

“Can I?” he rasps against the column of Anne's throat. When she gasps in what he knows to be blanket consent, Gilbert feels like a kid in the candy store faced with far too many options. There are a multitude of things, _of gifts_ , he wants to lavish upon Anne. So he works his way south, from lips to nipples to hips, but doesn't focus too much attention on one thing over the other. He is a maniac in that sense, trying to get a little taste of everything. Anne writhes beneath him, edging just shy of overstimulation. 

But despite Gilbert’s best efforts to switch up his ministrations, there is one particular taste he can’t deny coming back to for more. 

“Please, Gil” she huffs, twisting her hands pitifully in his hair. She tugs at the roots, nails biting against his scalp in a way that makes him groan. “Please I’m so- _Mpmmhhaah!_ ” 

Whatever breath she needed to finish that sentence is ejected from Anne in one long, powerful moan. Belatedly, she tries to muffle it into the crook of her arm, but the sound reverberates throughout the bedroom and down the hall. It is inching towards 4 AM and everyone should theoretically be asleep, but the volume of their love-making may be enough to raise the dead. Gilbert has no compunctions about it, turned on as he is, but Anne turns scarlet and not entirely from exertion. 

“You know, red is my favorite color on you,” he remarks, crawling upwards so that they’re back at eye-level again. Gilbert is still very much hard and leaking messily on the sheets, but doesn’t move to alleviate his discomfort in an effort to prolong the tryst. 

“You’re so annoying,” Anne turns her face away, embarrassed. It gives him enough of an opening to nuzzle lightly against her lobe, to nip at a spot beyond which Gilbert is discovering gets his Anne-girl worked up. He flips them both on their sides so that the curve of his waist fits perfectly along her ass, blowing cool air against the sensitive spot behind her ear. Anne gasps, reflexively spreading her legs just wide enough to accommodate him between her, appendage perfectly poised between her dripping folds. Wantonly, she slides up and down his length to alleviate the fast-returning ache, until the tip of him slips in and Gilbert can swear he sees stars. 

His hands grapple for something to hold onto and settles for the bundle of nerves sitting at the apex of her mound. He lies perfectly still, waiting in agony for permission.

“Gilbert, I trust you.” Anne says, trying to stifle a moan. She wants him to know this isn’t something she’s just saying for the sake of getting off. Anne’s never done this before and she wants him to be her first. “I need you inside me.” 

“Are you sure?” his fingers twitch, but he needs her to be _sure_. 

Instead of answering, his wicked Anne sinks onto him in one fluid motion, body offering little to zero resistance. There is no time to relax or ease herself into the sudden intrusion, so she takes twice as long accordingly before Anne is ready to proceed. It feels like eons before she allows Gilbert to move, to piston in and out of her with deeper and gradual strokes. He is utterly enthusiastic, but still watches her closely for any signs of pain or discomfort. Her pleasure hits a peak when his fingers rub _just so_ and Anne clenches down around him, evicting his own climax in response. It is an orgasm that rips through him without any warning, pulsates and throbs until he is reduced to nothing but sensation. Together, they ride out the waves until he softens and pulls out. *****

Gilbert towels them off with his discarded t-shirt afterwards, wiping Anne clean as she lays motionless, in euphoria. “That was nice,” she murmurs, letting her eyelids flutter close. 

“Just nice?” Gilbert echoes, balling up the used fabric and packing it away inside his suitcase with the rest of his dirty laundry. He joins Anne back in bed and she turns lazily to face him, letting the bend of her arm cradle her head atop the pillow. 

“My brain is absolute mush right now, Gil. Stop expecting much more from me, please.” 

He chuckles and tucks her up against his chest, the press of her skin a comfort Gilbert cannot be without. When the silence grows too deafening, he finally admits aloud: “To answer your question from earlier, I am going to miss you terribly.” 

Anne barely seems to stir, but does manage to say that “we’ll be okay.” There is no room for doubt despite the fact that they have no game plan or touch points or allowed Mary any input.

“How can you be so certain?” He wants even a tiny measure of Anne’s confidence.

She only shrugs, sleepily, and says “Because I love you.” Which strangely, to his ears, is all the assurance Gilbert needs.

-

Studio lights. A white couch scene. Candance sits across from him, relaxed and popular as ever.

“It’s crazy to think that this is the five year anniversary of your debut.”

Gilbert laughs, charming, and crosses one leg over the other. “I know, right? It feels like I’ve been working in the industry forever.”

“You’ve certainly come a long way since those little coffee commercials, haven’t you? And congrats on the Oscar nod for Best Supporting Actor, by the way.” 

The studio audience behind them erupts into cheers, hooting and hollering in uproarious celebration. 

“I’m just thankful for Petunia, who liked me enough to cast me in her second feature film.”

“You do have a knack for attracting powerful female directors, don't you?”

“It’s quite the opposite, actually. They’re the ones who have to put up with me. I just seem to gravitate toward powerful women in general, no matter who they are.” 

Which gives Candace the segue to start talking about the film. “And that’s the whole thing about _Greenhouse Gases_ right? This idea of strong women who don’t take anyone’s shit but are still allowed to be soft and vulnerable and feminine?” 

“That’s definitely _my_ interpretation of it. Petunia was very deliberate in her casting trying to recreate this vision in her brain, although I don’t think Winnie much enjoyed working with me again for the millionth time in a row.” 

His interviewer's eyes sparkle at the mention of Winnie and his relationship. “I''m sure!" she laughs, swatting playfully at his chest. "Was it weird playing siblings this time when you’re so used to romancing Miss Rose?” 

“Admittedly, it was very strange being on set during her big proposal scene but not being the one on the receiving end of it. I nearly broke character at least a dozen times to say yes.” 

“That whole scene is to die for!” Candace airily points to an empty space above her shoulders where post-editors will no doubt superimpose that clip from the film. “It’s not every day you see a woman propose!” 

Once again, it is low-hanging fruit.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Bash implore him not to speak.

Gilbert grins and looks straight into the camera anyway.

_“My fiancée, back in Avonlea, was actually the one who proposed.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not going to wax poetic (EVEN THOUGH I WANT TO) but I _did_ want to thank everyone for sticking with me on this whacky, self-indulgent ride. Although this story is technically complete, I have an epilogue in the works that is already shaping up to be a monster, so hopefully that will serve as a good send-off if this pile of fluff wasn’t enough.
> 
> Hugs and endless kisses to you all. Come bother me on tumblr @bbotanyclub :) 


	12. letters to gil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A selection of letters that Anne has sent to Gilbert throughout the years and over the course of one fateful summer (or as much a hand as Fate can play, given how it was Gilbert’s big mouth that started it all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAOOOOO this was _supposed_ to be the epilogue but I asked on Twitter if angsty epilogues were even allowed and received a resounding NO!!!!!!!!! (except from Em) only at this point, I’ve already picked at this update for too long not to post, so here we are!!!!!!! Let's fucking go!!!!!!!

**_23 November, 2017_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Hello! (Or is that too casual? Maybe I’ll try . . . Warm Regards?) Honestly, I’m not too sure how to start these things despite having read so many variations of letters and missives in my extensive literary adventures. Although it’s quite different within the context of the 21st century and knowing you are only a text message away, rather than conceptualizing whole borders and a 0.99$ postage stamp in between. Letters are so much more romantic in this way; to imagine the lives of the hands they’ve passed through and the sights they’ve seen along the way; and despite the infinite possibilities of destinations in this whole wide world, to ultimately end up nestled inside your mailbox? It’s probably the closest thing to magic we’ll get in the modern age, don’t you think?_

_Even as I’m writing this, I can picture you playfully rolling your eyes, lips curved upwards into that half smile of yours, and fixing to tease me over sentimentalizing something as mundane as the postal service. Still, I am_ _fully_ _imagining myself as the titular Lady Susan and striving to write with just as much weight, pretentious as I no doubt sound, but for good cause; this is only the first of many letters I will be sending you to serve as the basis for my future epistolary novel. It’ll be a tour de force, if only you would cooperate and/or grant me license to heavily doctor your responses. Or otherwise act accordingly by keeping any and all fart jokes to yourself, please and thanks._

_But honestly though, are you surprised to hear from me? And in the form of a letter?_

_At the risk of sounding contrary, I am probably more surprised to find myself writing to you in the first place, than you might be to receive this. This letter is coming from quite out of the blue, even if it isn’t completely out of character. But I was cleaning out my room the other day at Marilla’s behest (“I was under the impression that we adopted a young girl and not some scavenging fiend” is the exact quote she uses when descending upon my gable room with a trash bin, only thwarted in her attempts to purge by the promise to do it myself) when I stumbled upon a stationary kit Cole had gifted me last Christmas. It is simply too divine to toss, gilded edges dipped in 25 karat gold at least, gathering dust in my desk drawer unless I found a reason to put this tortoiseshell pen and letterhead to good use. So you were, for many reasons, the first person to come to mind._

_I suppose it’s only natural, when you are a dear friend living your best life and pursuing your neon dreams in Hollywood, California (sharing a land and history with the likes of Joan Didion and Charles Burkowski!) Plus, I’ve always wanted a pen pal with a delightfully unfamiliar address (which is why, in future, if you ever find yourself traveling abroad, shooting on set somewhere in the far-flung reaches of New Guinea or Timor, will you please find it in yourself (and in your pockets, because I can’t imagine international postage being cheap . . .) the kindness to post a response? I could die happy just seeing my name on a letter originating from Port of Spain in Trinidad. And I’ve always believed that having a well-traveled friend is second only to being well-traveled oneself._

_How is Los Angeles, by the way? Is it everything you’d imagined? (And don’t shrug it off claiming “it’s not a big deal” only to ultimately deprive me of the details I so desperately require!) I want to know_ _everythin_ _g_ _, from your favorite restaurant around the corner to the color of every wildflower growing in tiny cracks along the sidewalk; what your new friends are like and who they think killed Black Dahlia. Spare no details and edit no lines! I’m so dreadfully curious about every aspect of it all and can’t wait to hear about your misadventures in the States._

_But speaking of hearing things, I think congratulations are in order? According to Moody (who has become everyone’s premier source on all things Gilbert Blythe), you’ve landed an extended cameo on a primetime show and are due to shoot scenes by the end of the month. Which is incredible news! And so incredibly well-deserved! The whole town is buzzing at the prospect of seeing you and Tom Hardy together on screen. I’m sure Mrs. Lynde is already organizing a watch party in preparation for this acting endeavor, as she has already claimed you as an adoptive son and charged herself with the duty of heading up your burgeoning fanbase online given the amount of times she’s shared your commercial on her Facebook page to friends. I also wouldn’t put it past her to rent and organize a bus trip to Charlottetown to take pictures in front of your billboard, which I haven’t seen myself, but that Tillie assures me is even bigger in real life._

_Everyone misses you and keeps track of your rising star status like it’s our collective job. You’re probably the most fascinating thing to come out of Avonlea since that one hockey player on the Charlottetown Crowns and even then, you have way more potential than what Jane refers to as a “perennial benchwarmer who is passably attractive, but not enough to justify the hit on cap space” (whatever_ that _means; honestly, I’m offended by how people think I’m the one of the group who never makes any sense). So judging by those impossibly high metrics, you are a smashing success already._

_I know six months isn’t really all that much time to undergo too drastic a transformation, but I am still surprised to see how little a difference it has actually made. Your hair is maybe longer and there’s an additional freckle or two on your face, but you remain seemingly unchanged, the same Gilbert only in shades. I’m seeing you for the first time, every time whenever your spot comes on during breaks, dissonant from the image I’ve molded of you in my head. It’s like looking at a reflection in the rearview mirror of a car or an alternate dimension, somehow foreign but familiar. Movie magic casting you into a whole different person._

_There are approximately 5700 miles between here and L.A. and yet you’ve never seemed farther away than the distance between me and my TV._

_Do you think I’ve developed an inferiority complex? Because I’m almost nervous to send this letter._

_Although the odds of it reaching you, buried beneath your no-doubt mountainous pile of fanmail, are slim at best. Still, I hope you read it and feel compelled to write me back._

_Sincerely,_

_(Your number 1 fan)_

_Anne Shirley Cuthbert._

_-_

**_07 September, 2018_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_I’ve just wrapped up my last class for the day and am still trying to process the fact that I have_ _one whole week_ _of university under my belt! Simultaneously so surreal and yet everything I’ve ever imagined (minus the fact that dear, kindred Diana is all the way in France, befriending refined young ladies who eat croque monsieurs and possess what I assume to be aristocratic slopes to their noses, and rosy cheeks to boot! But if I linger on this train of thought for any longer, I may become too distressed to continue writing this letter and it is already a few days overdue as it is.)_

_Although I’m willing to admit that you are a big omission from the reality I’d envisioned as well; a gaping hole in the midst of my college career. The rest of high school passed by so uneventfully and unchallenged, I was already looking forward to Queens by the time senior year rolled around. And while you left for greener pastures over a year and a half ago, I still persist in imagining a future where you are nearby, pushing me to be better in every sense of the word._

_Every day that I don’t see your face around campus becomes something of a disappointment, Golden Boy that you are and would no doubt become. So instead, I fill in the outline of your absence with old memories and daydreams, coloring you corporeal, if only in my mind. You are the phantom limb I lean on because I am so used to the idea of Us; instinctively turning to find you during lectures despite knowing it is Jane or Ruby who occupies your seat, biting back comments that would go completely over their heads. As much as they love me and we will forever be friends, I fear they will always find me silly or more nebulous than space. You and Diana are the only ones who ever truly understand me, but I suspect it is just as much indulgence on Diana’s part than it is actual perception. All that to say: I miss you, Gilbert Blythe. At school, I mean. (There’s no one to compete with.)_

_And I doubt the appeal of strange bodies squished into small desk seats and all-nighters in libraries are enough to entice you back into the land of the commoners. Especially with your brand new movie coming out and your popularity skyrocketing by the day. And a new lease to a house? How simply sensational! To think: you will never again have to pour the midnight oil in a letter complaining about your faulty shower that only spits cold water or your pesky neighbor with the penchant for watching shoot ‘em up Westerns at three in the morning. But while I loved hearing about these colorful additions to your life and imagining the irritated furrow of your brow as you grumble and burrow deeper beneath the covers, I’m sure you will not miss these petty nuisances with any degree of fondness. However, I will do so in your place._

_As to the question of my own boarding house, I suppose it is an upgrade to living in on-campus dorms, but only marginally better given the long list of rules and regulations attached (like visiting hours for male friends and suitors? Positively Victorian and plausible, considering our matron practically predates the Stone Age by a century. I’m convinced Mrs. Blackmore outlived the dinosaurs out of pure spite and determination alone.) And the adage of having Josie as a roommate as well? Miserable. Although admittedly, she has softened quite a bit throughout the years—can almost be construed as tolerable, if one can appreciate the minute differences between corundum and cement. But in the grand scheme of things, Josie is still singularly awful; could easily be an arch nemesis if she weren’t already my friend._

_Meanwhile, I’m covering for Tillie every night while she sneaks out to rendezvous with some Paul or the other, false eyelashes and a cloud of perfume out the window. I can’t tell if she’s going through her sexual awakening cum Renaissance phase after escaping the tight societal pressures of Avonlea society or if she’s just the type to get to University and absolutely lose her marbles for a bit. Either way, I’m happy for her (even if it means waking up at all odd hours to let her back in after curfew.)_

_My own dating misadventures will probably never prove to be so exciting, if only because there is only one great love in my life._

_How are you, by the way? I feel like we exchange these letters so often, packed to the brim as they are with anecdotes and musings, that we never really stop to wonder how the other is doing; have only surmised it from the subtext pressed between run-on sentences and paragraphs (of which I am the most guilty, of course; you are a wonderful albeit annoyingly succinct writer. So much so, that I often wish you would send me longer letters, or lines that aren't the literary equivalent of gristle on bones. Some fat to chew on, while I wait between exchanges. Not a knock on the content, but just the platter on which you deliver it.)_

_Still, you are head and shoulders above Matthew, who remains stubborn about going in for a more comprehensive exam. He isn’t getting any younger and Jerry tells me his heart is bothering him more and more every day. Marilla and I are tag-teaming our efforts to convince him to see a doctor, but you know how Matthew gets when he feels he’s being backed into a corner. Just clams up more and retreats even further. Oh, how I wish he were like other men and would talk things out. A body could answer back then and argue him into reason. But what’s to be done with a man who just looks*?”_

_Though the same could be said about you sometimes, Gil. (But I’ll save that debate for later, for a medium that isn’t constructed solely on words.)_

_I hope the press tour goes well and that premiere day goes smooth. I’ve already bought tickets and can’t wait to share my thoughts! In turn, you’re obviously expected to regale me with tales of European exploits, because I am a glutton for stories and for stories of you. I’d also ask for postcards if I weren’t so wary of giving you ideas vis-a-vis the limited real estate for sentences. Gilbert, I swear if your next letter is any less than three sheets of paper front and back, I will actually end your life, the next two installments of the Riders franchise be damned._

_But I’m sure it won’t come down to that, now will it, Mr. Blythe?_

_:)_

_Yours always,_

_Anne._

_-_

**_16 August, 2019_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Long time no write, right?_

_I’m sorry for that. It has been an uneventful three months when all is said and done, but the quiet and somber of a home built for three is a strong demotivator in the face of my current reality. Even still, I should have written. Especially since I let you leave without saying goodbye._

_I’m doing as well as can be expected, although the prospect of leaving Marilla and Green Gables to go back to school in two weeks is a daunting one. Mrs. Lynde may soon be moving in though, as she has been the greatest comfort to Marilla over the months, and their decades of friendship serves as a solid foundation for cohabitation. It eases my guilt somewhat about ultimately deciding not to take a semester off to help out in the transition, especially since Jerry has so seamlessly assumed all the odds and ends and responsibilities over the farm and its operations._

_In many ways, I am thankful for Jerry and the quiet preparations he’s made up until now, without being asked or held to any expectations to do so. He has been the anchor our family has needed to weather the storms. Has even volunteered to help me build the most romantical bookcase you ever did see!_

_I’ve taken up carpentry now, in case you hadn’t heard. Diana says I need a side project in which to occupy my thoughts, because you know how I can get fixated on things and lose myself completely. I ultimately ended up arriving at carpentry because I think my hands are made for invention and conceptualizing all the different parts that make up the whole take up a lot of room in my head. The remaining unoccupied space is fixated on not taking off a finger while manning the circle saw or hammering in the baseboard incorrectly like an idiot. I am exhausted by the end of the day and sleep almost dreamlessly throughout the night, until morning rises and the routine repeats all over again. I’ve even graduated from planters and birdhouses to bigger furniture pieces altogether. And I want to build Marilla a rocking chair before I have to go back to school. Perhaps I’ll find the time to put together something for you as well? A thank you for May and for everything else that followed._

_You didn’t have to come and especially not after the hysterical phone call I placed from out of thin air. My fingers dialed your number before I could even fully register what was happening, drawing on the digits from somewhere deep inside my memory. The dial tone was what finally snapped me out of my trance and I was going to hang up before you went and picked up the phone. I thought I was calm until I heard your voice calling my name and like sandcastles, I crumbled from being trampled under foot. All the resolve in me left; rubber balloon heart exhaling grief with every sob. But in doing so created room for something almost like relief. Because of you and your steady presence, I felt like I didn’t have to be strong in that moment. And that whatever I wanted to do or whichever person I wanted to be, you would absorb and accept and stay with me throughout it all._

_I wish I had said it sooner, but it was really nice to see you, Gil._

_Hopefully the next time we meet, it will be on a sunnier day._

_Yours always,_

_Anne_

_-_

**_15 February, 2020_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_The most awful thing has happened! I’ve been severely maimed! During a gruesome attack in which recovery seems highly unlikely!_

_(As I’m writing this, Tillie is reading over my shoulder and imploring me to tell you that I am only hyperbolizing, so don’t fly off the handle and fly out to PEI without reading the rest of this missive. I’ve agreed, but only because I don’t want you to see me in this state; to remember me as I was that night by the ruins, still beautiful and unscathed, and unaware of the evils a pair of hands and sharp scissors can unleash._

_Again: Tillie wants to remind you that I am physically alright. Although she’s playing it fast and loose with the term when she is the devil who has essentially rendered me unsightly and unfit for human perception.)_

_But to make a long, sad, tragic, HEART-WRENCHING story short: Tillie has given me bangs and it is perhaps the worst thing that has happened since I accidentally dyed my hair green in eighth grade. At first, the cut was choppy and just a little uneven, but my vanity wouldn’t let it stand, so I tried to level them out in the mirror. But while the bangs got shorter and shorter, they never actually got any straighter, until eventually I ran out of hair and screamed like Bloody Mary upon realization._

_Josie took one look at me and fell to the floor in laughter. Called me “Friar Tuck” between bouts of giggles, which set Ruby off and brought Jane into the room, until basically everyone in the house had come to check out the commotion and ended up collapsing on top of each other in a shrieking heap at my expense. Oh Gil, it was so humiliating!_

_And to cap it off, everyone left afterwards to go on their respective Valentine’s Day dates while I stayed behind, alone, furiously Googling how to grow out my hair before my poetry showcase on Sunday. Baby bangs may be all the rage amongst the crowds that populate these events, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could never pull off this disaster with any semblance of intention. No matter how you slice it, Josie is right—I_ do _look like Friar Tuck._

 _And a devastating blow on top of Diana ditching me and our scheduled phone call for her own Valentine’s date on the French Riviera. Which is_ triply _offensive because 1) I’ve been deserted by my so-called best friend at the last possible minute and during my greatest time of need, 2) I ALSO want someone to take me on a romantic date on the French Riviera, only 3) my disastrous haircut prevents anyone from possibly wanting to take me out on a date IN THE FIRST PLACE._

_So truly, the universe is firing on all cylinders when it comes to methods in which to forsake me._

_I hope your week has gone better (even though I can’t see how it could have possibly gone worse)._

_Yours always,_

_Anne._

_P.S. You should know better than to ask me what I want for my birthday because my answer will always be, “A surprise!” And regardless, you always end up getting me something completely unexpected but brilliant. I promise to love anything you get me because it’s coming from you, so just trust your gut go with your first instinct._

_P.P.S. I wouldn’t turn down Dev Patel’s number though, if you have it on hand._   
  


-

**_12 May, 2020_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Hurrah! The first of many letters I will be writing from under your roof (specifically, the roof of the fully-functioning smaller home beside your gigantic one on the hill—which is quite the sentence to write and have it not be a work of fiction. Honestly, the extent of your wealth is sometimes difficult to grasp). I hope this finds you well, although I could just as easily pop inside and find out for myself. Or yell it from my doorstep, since I have a pretty good vantage of your bedroom balcony up above. If I squint, I can almost make out the silhouette of your dresser and a moving shape pacing back and forth. Are you nervous about something, or just looking for your keys?_

_It hardly seems real, being able to see you with my own two eyes, tangible and solid if I just reach out and touch. How strange and dream-like, after being apart for so long and with so many miles between us, to be together like this. (Both physically and in the relationship sense, thanks to this whole fake-dating scheme you’ve concocted. I know Hollywood employs this type of scenario all the time, whether it be for promotional buzz or some sort of quid pro quo between stars. But I am still apprehensive about trying to fool the press and the world at large, even if it won’t be too difficult to act like I’m genuinely in love. I’ve never been a particularly good actress, but I won’t even have to follow your lead in that regard.)_

_In fact, while you were sleeping, I even managed to convince the pair of stewards on our flight that I was in the process of convincing you to get a puppy. And while they cooed appropriately over the domesticity of it all, I might have accidentally wound up convincing myself that we need a dog to sell the act, like how Ben Affleck and Ana de Armas are always walking theirs when they run into the paparazzi. So in summary, this is just me asking for forgiveness rather than permission because I’ll end up bringing home a St. Bernard puppy named Merlin one day after work and you can’t get mad because I’m only fulfilling my contractual obligations._

_And it’s not as if your house isn’t large enough to provide ample room for a puppy to play. I’m sure I’ve expressed this sentiment to you far too many times today and will continue to do so in the future, but I can’t get over it! This place is_ _beautiful_ _and, if I’m being honest, entirely reminiscent of the home I’ve always dreamed of for myself (but on a much smaller scale, although that’s probably the Marilla in me speaking. In my heart of hearts, I think six rooms is hardly enough for all the adventures I could plan; treasure hunts and elaborate games of hide and seek galore. And not to mention the view! Oh Gilbert, I could stare at those mountains for lifetimes!). So of all the mansions I could have lucked into lodging at this summer (I have my pick of them, truly; I am terribly well-connected and flushed with cash you see), I am grateful that it is yours._

_These last two days have been a whirlwind, but of the sweetest kind. I’ve barely been in Los Angeles for more than a handful of hours, but am already overwhelmed. With so many people to meet and sights to see and things to do, it’s a wonder how a body could ever be bored. But then again, I can also see how it could have the opposite effect of making a body feel exceptionally lonely as well. The hustle and bustle as you’re standing in place, baking under the sun like a carcass out to dry._

_There’s anonymity in a city full of transplants and dreamers, when you can’t build communities because you can’t differentiate your neighbors. Or more likely these communities exist and have existed for decades, indiscernible to the eye when they’re being chipped away through the erosion of gentrification. Working multiple jobs to maintain your shitty studio apartment, the most social interaction you have confined to the likes of being social online._

_Why is it that big cities always make you feel the loneliest?_

_Reflecting on this, I guess I’ve never stopped to ask you the same._

_Are you lonely, Gil?_

_I take for granted the way you’ve always found yourself busy, surrounded by people, and ticking off achievements on your list. All without recognizing that popularity is not a panacea and despite the fact that I know and love every lyric to Britney Spears’ chart-topping Lucky (you are, of course, the titular Lucky in this scenario). Which has got me thinking about the conversation we had in the car the other day and how you don’t feel entitled to sympathy because your life is objectively pretty awesome. This begs the question(s): what other aspects of sudden celebrity have fundamentally changed your point of view or affected how you operate in the world and to the people around you? Have you developed trust issues as a result? Or overly compartmentalized your life in response? You seem well-adjusted enough, but now I’m second-guessing that estimation—wondering if you’ve ever been your true self in these letters as well._

_Who is Gilbert Blythe, really? I suppose I have an entire summer to find out._

_(Here's to peeling onions, one layer at a time.)_

_Yours always,_

_Anne._

-

**_14 May, 2020_ **

_To The Stupidest Boy on Earth,_

_As I am writing this letter, you are down the hallway in your bedroom fast asleep. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t shake you awake and demand to know what you meant by that confession in the car earlier tonight—you weren’t sober enough then and an hour of sleep surely isn’t enough to restore some of your senses now—but just know that I want to, and have half a mind to do it still. In fact, I want to shake you so hard it fully dislodges your brain, simply to see if there’s any difference in your cognitive function compared to when it’s intact._

_I have many grievances to air, Gilbert Blythe. And since I would rather gather my thoughts here on paper rather than (as I am wont to do) blow things out of proportion tomorrow, this letter will bear the brunt of my frustrations. If you are to read these words someday, it will only be because I want you to know how magnanimous I was being and expect you to acknowledge that accordingly. Although you’ll just run a hand or two through your head of curls, bite your lip in that sorry way of yours, and expect to be forgiven._

_I expect that you will be, if only because I am weak to such displays and you know it. That’s the only explanation for why you do it so often, right?_

_That is the first of my grievances: that you are so ridiculously good-looking. It’s absurd how attractive you are, even if it isn’t something you’re consciously taking advantage of. You’ve always been the most handsome boy in Avonlea, enough that even Marilla took notice when you came back for Matthew’s funeral, and enough to cut through our grief despite the heaviness of it all. On my personal list of most handsome men, you crack the top five, at least: somewhere behind Ernest Hemmingway and Frank O’Hara, but above Nikola Tesla for sure._

_Now you’re no longer PEI’s little secret. In fact, the whole world knows who you are! And though you don’t belong to me, I still don’t wish to share._

_Which brings me to my second grievance: this whole fake-dating scenario you and Bash and Mary have conjured up. It’s convoluted in a way that even I, with my wide scope for the imagination, can’t seem to wrap my brain around. Even if this whole endeavor is easily the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me and I’m incredibly grateful that you are letting me stay with you throughout the summer—wouldn’t it just be easier if you had asked me to_ real _-date you instead? I would say yes in a heartbeat. Even less, if that were possible._

_Unless this is your attempt at holding me at arms-length?_

_Because if that is the case, then there are subtler ways than disappearing into an unoccupied room with Winnie the minute I turn my back, only to stumble upon the two of you later in my search for an open bathroom._

_It felt like my world had shattered seeing you in such a compromising situation—and when you didn’t move to get away, or explain yourself, or really do anything except stare . . . looking at me with those inscrutable hazel eyes for what felt like plural eons—I wanted to bolt, back to Canada, back to Avonlea, and to Marilla._

_But Winnie squirreled me away before I had the chance to do anything of the sort and I could only follow along, strangely powerless to resist. She is a force of nature in that regard, like how hurricanes can move oceans. I can easily see the reason why everyone is so charmed by her, including yourself._

_Winnie was kind, though, and quick to reassure me that nothing happened or was ever going to happen (“I had a tiny crush on him in the past, when we were just babies filming our first movie together, and incredibly short-lived when it became obvious how much of his heart had already been promised to someone else.”) I’m not sure I believe her, when she is as beautiful as she is and as winsome as people find her._

_And my third grievance: the ease with which you affect around her, subconsciously or otherwise. I know, to a certain extent, that she is one of your closest friends in the industry and that you enjoy spending time with her outside of a professional setting. She is funny and sweet and maybe it’s a type of Stockholm and you can’t help it, considering the amount of hours you both spend on set, making promotional rounds together, and going on months-long press tours on end. But I don’t like the way she so easily slips past your defenses and gets you to lower your guard, draws from you a smile I thought was only reserved for me. A comfort level I thought you could only reach with me._

_God, I sound like such a jealous girlfriend._

_Maybe I won’t send you this letter, after all . . ._

_-_

**_31 June, 2020_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Sometimes I think you are lulling me into a false sense of comfort by not giving any indication that you are reading these letters. Which seems true enough, judging by the unopened state of them in your mailbox, and the way I’ve told your assistant to keep them a secret and she winks conspiratorially at me every time we meet. But still, it feels unrealistic that you haven’t the tiniest inkling of their existence, even after I told you at the beginning of this summer my intentions to continue exchanging them. Unless this all just a part of your master plan? To give me false confidence that I’m sending letters into the void, lowering my defenses to draw out a confession? Of how I’ve loved you since we were young?_

_I guess it’s working._

_Or maybe I’m just mad._

_It’s only more of the same. The way I pour my heart out every week and show you the deepest parts of my soul, all the unsubtle ways I tuck my love between these lines—only for you to never read it, or to not understand. Instead, just continue swanning about like a roguish Mr. Darcy, effectively stopping my heart every morning when you come sluggishly down the stairs in pursuit of a coffee addiction that is bordering on concerning. And Diana’s advice about forgoing the use of pants altogether has little to no effect in the acceleration of anything happening between us, because you are too much of a gentleman despite the amount of times I’ve caught you ogling out of the corner of my eye._

_And for the amount of time I dedicate to waxing poetic about how attractive you are, I think you should also know that I am something of a catch! The various opportunities I had in college—men who found me charming and irresistible, and plenty of women too—that I eventually turned down because it felt wrong to give them only the most shallow parts of myself. The parts I haven’t already given to you._

_But it is hard to conceptualize a reality where you’re mine. Not when the likes of someone as winsome as Winnifred Rose has failed to capture your affections. I’ve only just gotten around to accepting the crush you had on me in middle school, if only because I found the flower petals while pursuing your library the other day. You know, the ones Billy claims you’d collected after our winter recital in the seventh grade*? Pressed in between the pages of my old copy of Jane Eyre, brittle and yellowing, childish cursive transcribing childish musings. However did it end up in your possession? I’m almost scared to ask. Not when something romantic is sure to come from your mouth and I will end up spiraling again, desperately wishing you loved me the same way that I love you._

_I go through these cycles often, you see—ones where I’m convinced that your touch lingered too long or your eyes gleamed a certain way and my poor heart transforms your perplexities into full-blown declarations. When my imagination gets the best of me and I’m split down the seam, vulnerable to whatever manner of suggestion exists in your gaze. You unravel me, stitch by stitch, and whenever you hold me, I come completely undone._

_But my imagination is a double-edged sword; it tears me down just as easily as I’ve built you up._

_Of course he likes you, it whispers. But it is more hollow than a wishbone._

_Still, I’ll snap one in half and make a wish on it anyway._

-

**_22 July, 2020_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_The first few nights after you pulled me into bed and told me to stay, I still tried to leave. To sneak out before morning because I couldn’t stand the intimacy of being so close and yet not close enough._

_I waited until your breath evened out and could hear the beginnings of a snore—your snore that isn’t quite a snore, but more like a sniffle in cold weather; watched the rise of your chest and its subsequent fall, waves on the ocean, one measure for every six drumbeats of your heart. And then, when your eyelids started fluttering and you slipped peacefully into REM, I loosened and crept out from beneath the comfort of your arms._

_You stirred without waking, fingers twitching in your sleep. I stood to leave only to hear you whisper, softly, my name._

_“Anne.”_

_Your breathing remained steady. You were as still as the moon._

_I began to wonder if my mind was playing tricks. If this was an insidious attempt to keep me rooted in place._

_You say it again, even softer this time. “Anne.”_

_You smile then, and it broke my heart. But I stayed through the night and the one after that, because you called me again, and have every night since._

_I’m scared that I’m dreaming. I am scared to wake up._

-

**_03 September, 2020_ **

_Dear Gilbert,_

_We haven’t spoken in days and I can feel my resolve weakening every time I cross the threshold of this unfamiliar room, devoid of any warmth or familiarity despite the fact that I’ve slept in here more nights than anywhere else inside the house. Still, my sheets feel like sandpaper on the skin, 800-count Egyptian cotton rubbing me almost as raw as I feel. Some nights I only get through by staring at the ceiling in the dark, hot tears imagined as your breath leaving damp across my neck._

_Maybe I’ll give in and climb back into your bed. Just accept defeat and whatever love you have to give. Fool’s gold and ephemeral, but better than the nothingness of right now. We’ll make happy memories in the days we have left, moments I will cherish and cling onto forever, before you come to your senses and I’m eventually proven correct. You’ll be so sorrowful when you tell me, three months down the road, eyebrows knitted trying to hold back your hurt. Only in pain because you’re the one causing me pain._

_You’ll call, of course, because you think it’s the more gentlemanly thing to do. And not because you’re too much of a coward to pen me a proper Dear John; salt in the wound rather than the necessary flame for cauterization. You can’t afford to have my heartbreak in writing, so you’ll call and listen to the shattering instead._

_But maybe you won’t._

_Maybe I’m wrong._

_Have I messed things up completely?_

_I think it may be too late._

_Yours_ _always_ _. . ._

_Love,_

_Anne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Anne writes letters almost exclusively in parentheses because she has too many thoughts and diatribes to be contained within the confines of a sentence. And that she has spent years telling Gilbert she loves him through letters, only he is too much of an idiot to read between the lines. Hopefully I hit every letter mentioned in passing throughout the story, but if not, please forgive me. I wrote the majority of ‘girlfriend’ in a quarantined fever-dream and don’t actually remember a lot of what I wrote lol. But that doesn’t change the fact that this fic is my BABY and I love it a lot. I’m only glad you all seemed to like, too. 
> 
> Anyways, fluffy epilogue still to come :) 
> 
> *One of my favorite quotes from Anne of Green Gables.  
> *Canonically, Gilbert really did pocket a flower Anne threw during the play (LIKE THE ULTIMATE SIMP HE IS).
> 
> I am on Twitter and Tumblr @bbotanyclub and if you made it this far, you are contractually obligated to hang out with me.


	13. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snapshots of a relationship throughout the years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly fluff but also there's some smut. denoted*, as always.

_**(ten months)** _

The first year of their relationship is entirely long-distance with Anne going back to school full-time and Gilbert entering into the most productive period of his career thus far, booking movies, talk shows, and brand deals until he’s up to his eyeballs in work. Most days, Gilbert barely has time to breathe, much less ruminate over what this could mean in the long-run, although a small part of him is still terrified that he’s oversaturating the market, flying too close to the sun and opening himself up to celebrity fatigue; like how the world loved Jennifer Lawrence up until the day that they didn’t.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), those doubts are mostly drowned out by the more pressing matters at hand, namely his exhaustion and how long it’s been since he’d last seen Anne. He had spent the winter holidays with her and Marilla in Avonlea, half at Green Gables and the other half finally sorting through the buried memories and mementos of his father at the orchard estate. Softening the pain by making new memories with Anne: Christmas trees and cozy nights by the fire, dressing and undressing during all hours of the day, and putting out fires in the oven as she burnt turkeys to a crisp.

“It’s been too long,” Gilbert whines, pouting because he knows that he can. One of the best parts about dating for real is how much more comfortable he’s become in expressing the more selfish parts of himself, no longer able to hold back on all the ways he loves, misses, and longs for Anne. There are days over the course of the last year (a honeymoon period that never seems to end) that Gilbert feels _so much_ , heart and stomach brimming with her words, soft touches and laughter, the light in Anne’s eyes, and twine of their fingers in the dark—that he doesn’t know how he survived so long keeping it all to himself. Gilbert thinks he might burst open at the seams if he doesn’t let her know at least twice a day how much he adores her.

Meanwhile, Anne is only half-listening to the conversation, poking away at an essay for her Lit class while FaceTiming Gilbert on her laptop. It takes her a few seconds of silence to realize that it’s her turn to speak and Anne looks partially guilty about it, but otherwise serene. “Hmm? What did you say?

“I said it’s been four months since I’ve seen you,” Gilbert repeats, somewhat put-out by Anne’s waning concentration. “I’m not sure I even remember what you look like.”

Her eyebrows furrow adorably in confusion, clicking through a series of tabs in search of a particular quote for her paper. “But you’re looking at me right now,” she points out, which is technically true. He can see Anne in potato pixelation, sky to her back as she works outside a coffee shop patio before class. A pair of sunglasses push back the almost grown-out length of Anne’s bangs, the rest of her mane spread loosely across her bare, freckled shoulders. The rapidly warming weather signifies three things in Gilbert’s mind: the ending of term, the arrival of summer, and waking up to Anne every morning until September.

Gilbert grins in response, thinking back to their marathon last reunion and looking forward to a repeat performance, when he clarifies, “In bed with you, I mean.”

This, as it was intended, finally grabs Anne’s attention. She gapes, mouth open, as the red of her hair bleeds into the pale of her skin, dusting across cheekbones all the way down to her chest. “Gilbert Blythe!” she hisses, as if her headphones weren’t plugged in and the innuendo was spoken aloud for everyone around her to hear. Still, she can’t seem to hide the shadow of fire in her eyes, recollection every bit as vivid as Gilbert’s.

Though he trades mischief in for sincerity when he tells her, “I just miss you a lot, Carrots.”

Anne sighs, softening at the endearment and puts aside her essay for the moment. Utters a wistful, “I know” in response.

“No, you’re _supposed_ to say you miss me more. That’s how that works.”

“Even if it isn’t true?”

Gilbert is dumbfounded at the words. “Are you trying to pick a fight right now?”

“I’m just stating facts.” She laughs and leans back in her chair, nonchalant. “You definitely miss me more. I don’t have the opportunity to when all I see is your face on TV, across magazines, and online. Someone even changed all of the computer backgrounds in the library last week to different stills from your new movie.”

“Was it you?”

“For legal purposes, I’m not allowed to say.”

Gilbert pulls his phone in closer to his face so that the screen picks up only his forehead and the crease between his brows. He’s too nervous to make eye contact, even across the internet, because Anne is beautiful and he is feeling especially insecure. The closer and closer they approach their one year mark, the more Gilbert wonders if this isn’t just some dream. Not because theirs is an unequal partnership or that he feels unfulfilled in any way, but due to a natural product of distance and the habit of loving quietly for so long.

“But you _do_ miss me, right? Even if it’s not as much?”

Anne rolls her eyes, resting a cheek in the palm of her hand. “If I missed you any less, it wouldn’t be significant enough to register using any known maths or technology.”

“Which is grounds to round up and conclude that we miss each other equally, yeah?” He shouldn’t have posed it as a question because Anne could easily say no, but the puppy-dog expression on his face makes it impossible to do anything but agree.

“You are truly the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” she declares, which is a yes in all but semantics.

Gilbert grins and wonders if he should take on more projects, if only to spare Anne the burden of missing him just as much. He wouldn’t wish the way he yearns for Anne, both in and out of her company, on his very worst enemy.

“Still, you love me.” It is a question without being phrased as such.

Anne’s answering smile is indescribably soft, in total agreement with her silly boyfriend who needs constant reassurance. “Still, I love you.”

-

_**(one year)** _

Predictably, they row on their one year anniversary. And entirely because they can’t agree on when it actually is.

“No, no, no. It should be the day we kissed in the theater at the Toronto Film Festival,” Anne argues firmly, incredulity written plain across her face and in the strong set of her jaw. Secretly, he knows she is questioning his intelligence and commitment to living. Especially if this is the hill that he is willing to die on by her hand.

“Obviously it should be three days after, when you gave me that letter and my Hollywood Star.” The one he displays proudly next to all of his other accolades on the mantle, crude and conspicuous next to all the gold, gilded awards, but the one that Gilbert is most proud of.

Anne scoffs, hands on her hips; a power stance that does little to make him back down. “Is it because we had sex that night?” she accuses. “Because you put your dick in me and that’s what you’re using as the marker for our first anniversary?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Gilbert commands, irritated that he is being willfully misunderstood. "Our relationship started because of a letter, so why shouldn’t the date of that particular one be used to indicate our one year? And it felt real to me, in that moment. Seeing your feelings written down on the page, just like any ordinary letter you would have sent me in the years leading up.”

“Did I not make it clear enough before? When I kissed the living daylights out of you and told you that I loved you?”

“That felt like a fantasy come true. Later that night even more so.”

“Aha! So it is just a sex thing for you!”

“Anne, you’re being ridiculous.”

“And _you’re_ being obstinate.” She presses both hands against the sides of his face, squishing his cheeks so that Gilbert’s lips pucker up. “Tell me the truth—it is because you want to make good on your 1 Year Money-Back Guarantee and return me before it expires? Is that why you’re being so stubborn about all this?”

“Has it occurred to you that not everything is about you? That I really do think our anniversary should be September 9 for legitimate reasons?” Is what Gilbert means to say. What it actually comes out as is _“hathitoccuredtoyouthatnoteberythinisaboutyou?ThatIwreallydothinkouranniwerserychoodbeseptemberninepourlegitimatereasons?”_ But Anne understands him anyway.

“9/9?” she realizes, rolling the date around on her tongue, as if testing out fine wine and appreciating the bouquet. If anything, she agrees with how poetic it looks in her mind’s eye rather than the solid logic of Gilbert’s claims. But a win is a win when Anne later acquiesces to holding their anniversary for that Saturday instead, citing that it’s because she has to give in to him sometimes because relationships are a compromise.

And also because she gets a phone alert that her anniversary present has gotten delayed in the mail.

“So much for compromise, huh?” he teases, reading the notification from behind as he rests his chin on the free real estate of her shoulder.

“Would you rather admit to being wrong?”

He nibbles on her earlobe. “Nothing about this past year with you has been wrong.”

-

_**(two years)** _

The wedding is beautiful—held in Gilbert’s orchard back in Avonlea where they first fell in love; him very quickly, while she meanders towards the inevitable. It is mid-October and the air is cool, guests gathered in lawn chairs in a clearing by the house, everywhere pink to compliment the freesia and sweet pea florals. Even the fall blooms are cooperating, leafy greens giving way to apples ripe for the picking.

Gilbert stands at the end of the aisle, fidgeting terribly because he’s anxious to get started, having waited on this moment for seemingly forever. After months of preparation, anticipation, and more than enough tears shed on both sides, it is all coming together: a wedding for the ages and the biggest Avonlea has seen in awhile. It is also the first amongst their friend group, although definitely not the last (Fred and Diana are looking particularly cozy at the end of the aisle, waiting for the procession music to start, whispered laughter pressed into the thick of her hair. Even Jane bites the bullet and hits on Anne’s friend, Ka’kwet, who isn’t _not_ interested.)

But everyone snaps to attention when the beginning notes of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus plays, absent the reverberation of an enclosed space and floating loftily into the wind. The bride both appears and proceeds down the aisle simultaneously, deliberate steps to match the magnitude of the event, and the vision he’s always known she’d be in white. The moment lasts only a minute and a lifetime, but finally she arrives.

The officiant clears her throat, dramatic as she is wont to be but somewhat muted for the sake of the wedding. Anne slides easily into the role, as she does most everything else.

_“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Ruby Margaret Gillis and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson.”_

The ceremony continues. Anne cries no less than five times, twice during the exchanging of vows and has to quickly pull herself together both times to recite her lines. Gilbert, as the best man, performs his singular task of handing over the rings with smashing success, and the rest of the afternoon leading into the reception continues on that same upwards trajectory. There is plenty of drinking, schmoozing, eating, and dancing; a few more tears accompanied by a metric ton more laughter, Charlie only embarasses himself _once_ when shooting his shot with Prissy, in a pantsuit, and whose rejection is just a fractionally prolonged stare that somehow spoke volumes; and general merriment all around. By the time the clock strikes 11 and the bouquet is scheduled to be thrown, everyone is drunk on their feet, swaying and hollering as Ruby climbs atop the stage. The menfolk trickle towards the outskirts of the circle or deliberately step off to the side by the refreshments. Gilbert is keeping an eye on Anne in high heels, liable to fall but insists she needs the height advantage against Josie, who is gunning for the catch.

_“In 3 . . . 2 . . . 1”_

Ruby bends at the knees, rises and pushes her momentum into the swing, the bundle of flowers following a perfect arc up and over her shoulder. A tiny body with surprising strength, the bouquet sails past the heads and outstretched arms of the crowd on the dancefloor, off the tips of Charlie’s instinctive vertical, and lands almost perfectly in Gilbert’s hands.

Anne’s laugh is the first thing he hears when he comes up the catch. “Nice one, honey!”

Josie glowers, but accepts her fate.

A Shirley-Cuthbert-Blythe wedding in on the horizon.

-

_**(two years, eight months)*** _

Sex with Anne only gets better with experience, although sometimes he misses the raw _need_ that fueled a lot of their earlier encounters; snatches of intimacy against the machinations of time and hundreds of miles in between the places they call home. For all the moments Anne would grip vice-like legs around his torso and strain almost feral against his core, whiting out his vision and all thoughts of precaution along with it.

(Gilbert will never admit that the image of Anne, belly round with his child, pushes him dangerously to the edge. Incredibly at risk of coming entirely untouched.)

But they are still young and there will be time for that down the road.

Because right now, his attention is focused entirely on Anne, riding his face like a new car off the lot. The scent of her arousal is the strongest at this angle, drawn in by gravity and the way his fingers dig eagerly into her thighs, pulling her closer because he can’t survive without the taste. Everything comes secondary when they are together like this, when he needs so very little outside of his beloved Anne.

Gilbert thinks he could die when she falls apart against his lips, trembling through the aftershocks as he continues to suction and lick.

“I love you,” he hums in between strokes of his tongue, bringing her to ecstasy again before she needs to take a break. Anne collapses into a heap atop of his body, forehead pressed beneath the curve of his pec.

“I love you the most.” She takes Gilbert in hand, slowly at first to give her some time to catch her breath. And then it’s off to the races when she sits up and slots him, with little resistance, inside. It’s only a matter of minutes before they both peak together, completely in sync and attuned to the other’s crescendo.

Even pillow talk gets better when it feels like they can talk without talking, whispering secrets just to hear the other speak. He especially likes the way Anne’s voice sounds immediately following sex, hoarse and wrecked because she’s unabashedly loud in her ministrations. It is a total ego boost on top of everything else (the multiple orgasms and the way she never walks completely straight in the morning).

Anne cleans them off and tucks herself underneath his chin, two of his arms circling automatically around her waist.

There is a checklist of items to go through before bed.

“Thanks again for cooking dinner.”

“Thank you for cleaning up.”

“I’m sorry for letting that ice cube melt and letting you step in it with your socks.”

“I’m sorry for wearing those same socks during sex.”

“I love you more than every hydrogen molecule in the ocean.”

“I love you more than all the Oscars you deserve."

-

_**(three years, three months)** _

Anne’s book is published on a Tuesday to little fanfire, mostly because she forbade him from mentioning it in any interviews, on social media, or through word of mouth to his friends. The most he’s allowed is the final draft copy that Anne threatens to yank from his hands if he isn’t finished reading it by release date because “I would hate for you to be spoiled,” she explains, “and even more so if you were the one to do the spoiling.” So effectively, Gilbert’s been embargoed from speaking and has to spend the next two days sneaking in a chapter or two between film shoots.

_Cordelia In Love_ is a sweet story of first love between a girl who summons rain and a boy who always carries an umbrella. Roy Gardner is tall, dark and handsome and most definitely _not_ modeled after Gilbert. But even still, red-haired Cordelia is his favorite—his Anne in all but name.

The author makes it a point to ask for his thoughts every night before dinner, demanding a short summary of what he’s read so far and his initial reaction to the story. There is an edge to her tone that he chalks up to a need for creative validation and becomes exponentially sharper when Anne instructs him to read until the very last page. It isn’t until he reaches the _Acknowledgements_ section of the book that Gilbert realizes the reason why.

_I credit the completion of this brainchild to many different people. The first of which being my parents, Marilla and the late Matthew Cuthbert, for taking in an orphan with a mouth much too big for her britches. To my kindred spirits all over the world, Darling Diana, Cole, and Ruby. To Moody, Jane and Tillie, and even you Josie Pye. To my editor and confiant and former fellow intern, Joseph. Anyone who has ever said a kind word to me growing up. My publishers and team over at Jack & Jumper, who deserve more than the world and thus more than anything I could offer. To Miss Stacy, for convincing me I could write something worthwhile, and Cameron, the barista at Coffee King who only knows me as “Tall Chai with Lavender”, for making sure it actually got done. To Preeti, for the ten extra pounds I cannot attribute to stress over writing this book. My actual manager, Dave, and my managers by proxy (even little Delphine!), the LaCroixs._

_And finally, to my love: you are the sun, the moon, and all the stars in between. There’s nothing I could say that comes close to encapsulating the magnitude and meaning of the words inside my heart. All except this:_

**_“WIll you marry me, Gil?”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN.


End file.
